' 


///  3  - 


MY  LITTLE  SISTER 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


GEORGE  MANDEVILLE'S  HUSBAND 

THE  NEW  MOON 

THE  OPEN  QUESTION 

BELOW  THE  SALT 

THE  MAGNETIC  NORTH 

THE  DARK  LANTERN 

COME  AND  FIND  ME 

(PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  HKINEMANN) 
THE  CONVERT   (MBTHUBN) 

VOTES  FOR  WOMEN:   A  Play  in  Three 
Acts  (MILLS  &  BOON) 

THE  FLORENTINE  FRAME 

(JOHN  MURRAY) 

WOMEN'S  SECRET 

(WOMAN'S  PRESS,  LINCOLN'S  INN  HOUSE,  KINGSWAY) 

WHY? 
(WOMAN'S  PRESS,  LINCOLN'S  INN  HOUSE,  KINGSWAY) 

UNDER  HIS  ROOF 

(WOMAN  WRITER'S  LEAGUE,  12  HENRIETTA  ST.) 


MY  LITTLE  SISTER 


BY 


ELIZABETH   ROBINS 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,    MEAD  AND   COMPANY 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  1913 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

Published,  January,  1913 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 

II  LESSONS 6 

III  A  THUNDER-STORM 13 

IV  NUMBUS 16 

V  THE  MOTHER'S  Vow 24 

VI  MARTHA'S  GOING — YET  REMAINING  ....  33 

VII  A  SHOCK 45 

VIII  ANNAN 51 

IX  ERIC 59 

X  THE  BUNGALOW 68 

XI  AWAKENING 83 

XII  OUR  FIRST  BALL 94 

XIII  THE  CLOUD  AGAIN 108 

XIV  "WHERE  is  BETTINA?" 120 

XV  MY    SECRET 137 

XVI  THE  YACHTING  PARTY 150 

XVII  THE  EMERALD   PENDANT 161 

XVIII  RANNY 169 

XIX  ANOTHER  GIRL 178 

XX  Two  INVITATIONS  AND  A  CRISIS 186 

XXI  AUNT  JOSEPHINE'S  LETTER 198 

XXII  PLANTING  THYME 209 

XXIII  ERIC'S  SECRET 215 


CHAPTER 
XXIV    MADAME   AURORE 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
224 

XXV    GOING  TO  LONDON 244 

XXVI    AUNT  JOSEPHINE 253 

XXVII    THE    DINNER    PARTY 266 

XXVIII    THE  GREY   HAWK 287 

XXIX    WHERE? 303 

XXX    THE  BLUNT  LEAD-PENCIL 310 

XXXI    THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SWORD 322 

XXXII    DARKNESS 329 

XXXIII  A  STRANGE  STEP 336 

XXXIV  THE  END  WHICH  WAS  THE  BEGINNING     .     .  341 


MY  LITTLE  SISTER 


CHAPTER  I 

FIRST   IMPRESSIONS 

SHE  is  very  fair,  my  little  sister. 

I  mean,  not  only  she  is  good  to  look  upon.  I 
mean  that  she  is  white  and  golden,  and  always 
seemed  to  bring  a  shining  where  she  went. 

I  have  not  been  able,  I  see,  to  set  down  these 
few  sentences  without  touching  the  quick. 

I  have  used  the  present  and  then  fallen  to  the 
past.  I  say  "  is  "  and  then,  she  "  seemed."  And 
I  do  not  know  whether  I  should  have  written 
"  was  "  or  "  seems." 

And  that,  in  sum,  is  my  story. 

***** 

We  were  both  so  young  when  we  went  to  Dun- 
combe  that  even  I  cannot  clearly  remember  what 
life  was  like  before. 

Whether  there  was  really  some  image  left  upon 
my  mind  of  India,  or  my  father  in  a  cocked  hat, 
looking  very  grand  on  a  horse,  or  whether  these 
were  a  child's  idea  of  what  a  cavalry  officer's 
daughter  must  have  seen,  I  cannot  tell.  I  do  not 


2  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

think  I  imagined  the  confused  picture  of  dark 

faces  and  a  ship. 

My  first  clear  impression  of  the  world  is  the 
same  as  Bettina's.  A  house,  which  we  did  not 
yet  know  as  small,  set  in  a  place  which  still  is 
wide  and  green. 

As  far  back  as  we  remember  it  at  all,  we  re- 
member roaming  this  expanse;  always,  in  the  be- 
ginning, with  our  mother.  A  region  where  we 
played  with  the  infinite  possibilities  of  existence — 
from  the  discovery  of  a  wheat-ears'  hidden  nest, 
to  the  apparition  of  a  pack  of  hounds  on  the  hori- 
zon, followed  by  men  in  red  coats  and  ladies  in 
sober  habit,  on  horses  that  came  galloping  out 
of  the  vague,  up  over  the  green  rim  of  the  world, 
jumping  the  five-barred  gate  into  Little  Klaus's 
meadow,  and  vanishing  in  a  pleasant  fanfare  of 
horn,  of  baying  and  hallooing,  leaving  us  stand- 
ing there  in  a  stirred  and  wonderful  stillness. 

We  seldom  met  anyone  afoot  in  those  days 
except,  now  and  then,  the  cottager  who  lived  in 
a  thatched  hut  down  in  one  of  the  multitude  of 
hollows.  We  called  him  "  Kleiner  Klaus,"  because 
he  had  one  horse  of  his  own,  and  because  some- 
times in  the  paddock  four  others  grazed  and 


FIRST   IMPRESSIONS  3 

kicked  their  heels.     And  he  was  little  and  shrewd- 
looking,  and  used  to  smile  at  Bettina. 

To  be  sure,  everyone  smiled  at  Bettina. 

And  Bettina  would  show  her  dimple,  and  nod 
her  shining  curls,  and  pass  by  like  a  small  Princess, 
scattering  gold  of  gladness  and  goodwill. 

Though  we  children  looked  on  Kleiner  Klaus 
as  a  friend,  years  went  by  before  we  dared  so 
much  as  say  good-morning  to  him.  Anyone  else 
found  at  large  in  our  green  dominions  was  an 
enemy. 

So  much  we  learned  before  we  learned  to  speak 
our  mother  tongue,  and  all  in  that  first  lesson, 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  A  lesson  typified  in 
the  figure  hurrying  to  the  rescue  down  the  flagged 
path  toward  the  gate.  My  mother!  .  .  .  who 
had  moved  through  all  our  days  with  change- 
less calm.  And  now  she  was  running  so  fast  that 
her  thick  hair  was  loosened.  A  lock  blew  across 
her  face. 

Melanie,  our  nurse,  stood  inside  the  gate  with 
Bettina  in  her  arms.  A  lady  leaned  over,  asking 
the  way  to  the  Dew  Pond.  Melanie  could  not 
even  understand  the  question.  But  I  knew  all 
about  the  Dew  Pond.  I  had  been  there  with  my 


4  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

mother  to  look  for  caddis  flies.  So  I  pointed  to 
the  knoll  against  the  sky,  and  stammered  a  direc- 
tion. Bettina  was  of  no  use  to  anyone  looking 
for  the  Dew  Pond.  But  she  quickly  took  her 
place  as  the  centre  of  interest.  All  that  she  did 
to  make  good  her  Divine  Right  was  to  show  her 
dimple,  and  point  a  meaning  finger  at  the  jewelled 
watch  pinned  to  the  stranger's  gown.  The  lady 
held  out  her  hands  to  our  baby.  Bettina  con- 
sented to  be  taken  nearer  to  the  sparkling  toy. 

Then  our  mother,  as  I  say,  hurrying  out  of  the 
house  as  though  it  were  on  fire,  taking  the  baby 
and  the  nurse  and  me  away  in  such  haste,  I  had 
no  time  to  finish  telling  the  lady  how  to  find  the 
Dew  Pond. 

I  heard  my  mother,  who  was  commonly  so 
gentle,  telling  the  nurse  in  stern  staccato  French 
if  ever  it  happened  again  she  would  be  sent  away. 
Never,  never  was  she  to  allow  anyone  to  touch 
our  baby.  Had  the  strange  woman  kissed  Bet- 
tina? 

The  new  nurse  lied. 

And  I  said  no  word. 

But  the  impression  was  stamped  deep.  No 
one  outside  the  family  at  Duncombe  was  ever  to 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS  5 

kiss  Bettina.  Or  even  to  kiss  me — which  I  re- 
member thinking  a  pity. 

Moreover,  I  perceived  that  if,  through  the 
ignorance  or  the  wickedness  of  stranger-folk,  this 
thing  were  to  happen  again,  one  would  never 
dare  confess  it. 

For  such  a  catastrophe  the  far-sighted  Bon 
Dieu  had  provided  the  refuge  of  the  lie. 


CHAPTER  II 

LESSONS 

THERE  was  one  lasting  cloud  upon  a  childhood 
spent  as  close  to  our  mother  as  fledglings  in  a 
nest. 

Our  mother  was  the  most  beautiful  person  we 
had  ever  seen.  Even  as  quite  young  children  we 
were  dimly  conscious  of  the  touch  of  pathos  in 
the  beauty  that  is  frail,  as  though  we  guessed  it 
was  never  to  grow  old.  But  this  was  not  the 
cloud.  For  the  presentiment  was  too  undefined, 
it  came  in  a  guise  too  gentle  to  give  us  present 
uneasiness. 

In  the  unquestioning  way  of  children,  we  ac- 
cepted the  fact  that  one's  mother  should  be  too 
easily  tried  to  join  in  active  games.  But  she 
taught  us  how  to  play.  She  was  as  much  a  factor 
in  our  recreation  as  in  our  lessons — so  much  so 
that  we  were  a  long  time  in  finding  out  the 
dividing  line  between  work  and  play.  I  think 
that  must  have  been  because  our  mother  had  a 
genius  for  teaching.  The  hard  things  she  made 
stimulating,  and  the  easy  things  she  made  delight. 


LESSONS  7 

No;  there  was  an  exception  to  this. 

Not  even  my  mother  could  make  me  good  at 
music.  She  was  infinitely  patient.  She  made  al- 
lowances for  me  that  she  never  made  for  my 
sister. 

Once,  when  I  was  dreadfully  discouraged,  I 
was  allowed  to  leave  my  "  Etude  "  and  learn  some- 
thing that  might  be  supposed  to  catch  my  fancy 
— a  gay  and  foolish  little  waltz-tune  called  "  The 
Emerald  Isle." 

"Oh,  but  quicker,  child!"  I  hear  her  now. 
"  It  is  not  a  dirge." 

I  began  again — allegro,  as  I  thought. 

But  "  Faster,  faster !  "  my  mother  kept  saying, 
till  I  dropped  my  hands. 

"  How  can  I  ?  You  expect  me  to  be  as  quick 
as  God!" 

I  think  this  must  have  been  after  that  act  of 
His  which  gave  us  a  sense  of  surpassing  swift- 
ness. For  long  I  blamed  my  lack  of  skill  upon 
my  fingers;  they  were  as  stiff  as  Bettina's  were 
elastic.  She  kept  always  the  hand  of  a  very 
young  child — so  soft  and  pliant  that  you  wondered 
if  there  were  any  bones  in  it  at  all  until  you  heard 
the  firm  tone  in  her  playing,  and  saw  the  way  in 


8  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

which,  when  she  was  stirred,  she  brought  down 
the  flying  hands  on  some  rich,  resolving  chord. 

Years  after  I  was  still  able  only  to  practise, 
Bettina  "  played."  And  better  even  than  her  play- 
ing was  Bettina's  singing.  That  began  when  she 
was  quite  a  baby.  I  see  her  now,  a  small  figure, 
all  white  except  her  green  shoes  and  her  hair  of 
sunset  gold,  singing;  singing  a  nursery  rhyme  to 
an  ancient  tune  my  mother  had  found  in  one  of 
her  collections  of  old  English  song: 

"  Where  are  you  going  to,  my  pretty  maid?  " 

We  thought  this  specially  accomplished  of 
Bettina,  because  it  was  the  first  thing  she  sang  in 
English. 

I  do  not  remember  how  we  learned  French. 
It  must  have  been  the  first  language  that  we 
spoke.  Our  mother,  without  apparent  intention, 
kept  us  to  the  habit  of  talking  French  when  we 
did  the  pleasantest  things.  All  the  phrases  and 
verbal  framework  of  our  games  were  French;  all 
the  mythology  stories  were  in  French. 

And  we  seemed  to  fall  into  that  tongue  only  by 
chance  when  we  went  collecting  treasures  for  our 
herbarium,  or  the  fresh-water  aquarium. 


LESSONS  9 

We  found  out  by-and-by  that  the  walks  we 
thought  so  adventurously  long  were  little  walks. 
We  also  found  that  our  world  was  less  unin- 
habited than  we  thought.  Duncombe,  we  dis- 
covered, stood  midway  between  two  large  country 
houses.  Besides  the  cottage  of  Kleiner  Klaus, 
there  were  other  small  peasant  holdings,  dotted 
like  islands  in  our  sea  of  green — brave  little  en- 
closures made,  as  we  heard  later,  by  the  few  who 
refused  to  be  wholly  dispossessed  when,  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  the  open  heath  had  been  taken 
from  the  people. 

Our  own  Duncombe,  which  we  thought  very 
grand  and  spacious,  had  been  only  a  superior  sort 
of  farmhouse. 

Everyone  has  marked  the  shrinkage  in  those 
nobler  spaces  we  knew  as  children.  In  our  case, 
not  all  imaginary,  the  difference  between  what  we 
thought  was  "  ours  "  and  what,  for  the  time  being, 
was.  We  never  doubted  but  the  boundless  heath 
belonged  to  us  as  much  as  our  garden  did. 

We  were  confirmed  in  our  belief  by  the  attitude 
of  our  mother  towards  those  persons  detected  in 
daring  to  walk  "  our  "  paths,  or  touch  our  wild- 
flowers,  or,  worst  crime  of  all,  disturb  our  birds. 


io  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

The  proper  thing  to  do,  on  catching  sight  of  any 
stranger,  was  to  start  with  an  aversion  suggested 
by  our  mother's,  but  improved  upon — more  pic- 
torial. We  would  all  three  stare  at  the  intruder, 
and  then  allow  our  eyes  to  travel  to  the  nearer  of 
the  signs,  "  Trespassers,"  etc.  If  this  pantomime 
did  not  convince  the  creature  of  the  impropriety 
of  his  presence,  we  would  look  at  one  another 
with  wide  eyes,  as  though  inquiring:  "  Can  such 
things  be?  Are  these,  then,  deliberate  criminals? 
If  so  " — our  looks  agreed — "  the  company  of  out- 
laws is  not  for  us."  We  turned  our  backs  and 
went  home.  I  was  twelve  before  I  realised  that 
we  ourselves  were  trespassers. 

The  heath  belonged  to  Lord  Helmstone. 

That  was  a  blow. 

Still  worse,  the  later  knowledge  that  Buncombe 
House  and  garden  were  not  our  own.  The  lay- 
ing  out  of  a  golf  course,  and  the  cheapening  of 
the  motor-car,  forced  the  facts  upon  our  knowl- 
edge. But  I  am  glad  that  as  little  children  we 
did  not  know  these  things.  We  saw  ourselves  as 
heiresses  to  the  prettiest  house  and  garden  in  the 
world.  And  no  whit  less  to  those  broad  acres 
rolling  away — with  foam  of  gorse  and  broom  on 


LESSONS  ii 

the  crests  of  their  green  waves — rolling  north- 
ward towards  London  and  the  future. 

Two  miles  to  the  south  was  our  village — source 
of  such  supplies  as  did  not  come  direct  from  Big 
Klaus,  or  from  Little  Klaus.  We  knew  the  vil- 
lage, because  when  we  were  little  we  went  to 
church  there.  Big  Klaus,  the  red-faced  farmer, 
who  had  a  great  many  collie  dogs  and  nearly  as 
many  sons,  drove  us  to  church  in  a  dog-cart.  The 
moment  the  squat  tower  came  in  view  Bettina 
and  I  would  lean  out  to  see  who  would  be  the 
first  to  catch  sight  of  Colonel  Dover.  He  was 
nearly  always  waiting  near  the  lych-gate  to  help 
my  mother  out  of  the  cart.  One  or  two  other 
people  would  stop  to  speak  as  we  came  or  went. 
Often  they  asked,  Would  she  come  to  a  garden- 
party?  Would  she  play  bridge?  Would  she 
help  with  a  children's  school-treat? 

And  she  never  did  any  of  these  things. 

Bettina  and  I  liked  Colonel  Dover  till  we  over- 
heard something  Martha  Loring  said  to  the  cook. 
Both  women  seemed  to  think  my  mother  was 
going  to  marry  him!  Bettina  was  too  young  to 
mind  much.  Besides,  he  had  beguiled  Bettina 
with  chocolate. 


12  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  was  furious  and  miserable. 

I  said  to  myself  that,  of  course,  my  mother 
would  never  dream.  .  .  .  But  the  servants 
gossip  poisoned  all  the  time  of  primroses  that 
year.  I  thought  about  little  else  in  our  walks. 

Once  we  met  him.  Something  began  that  day 
to  whisper  in  the  back  of  my  head:  "  If  he  asks 
her  enough  she  might  give  in.  She  does  to  me 
when  I  persist." 

Out  of  my  first  great  anxiety  was  born  the  be- 
ginning of  my  knowledge  of  my  mother's  char- 
acter. 

I  could  see  that  she,  too,  was  afraid  of  giving 
in. 

But  afraid  of  contest  quite  as  much.  Afraid 
of — I  knew  not  what.  But  I  knew  she  stayed 
away  from  church,  because  she  was  afraid.  I 
knew  our  walks  were  different,  because  we  were 
always  thinking  we  might  meet  him. 

I  prayed  God  to  give  my  mother  strength — 
for  Christ's  sake  not  to  let  it  happen.  Morning 
and  night  I  prayed  that  prayer  for  half  a  sum- 
mer. 

Dreadful  as  the  issue  was,  I  was  thankful  after- 
wards that  I  had  taken  the  matter  in  hand. 


CHAPTER  III 

A    THUNDER-STORM 

Two  Sundays  in  succession  we  had  not  been  to 
church.  As  we  were  going  out,  after  lessons,  on 
Monday  morning,  a  thunder-storm  came  on.  So 
Bettina  and  I  played  in  the  upstairs  passage.  I 
remember  how  dark  it  grew,  although  there  was 
a  skylight  overhead,  and  a  window  opening  on 
the  staircase.  We  groped  for  our  playthings  in 
the  twilight,  till  quite  suddenly  the  croisee  of  the 
casement  showed  as  ink-black  lines  crossing  a 
square  of  blue-white  fire. 

The  shadowy  stair  was  fiercely  lit;  our  toys, 
too,  and  our  faces.  The  moment  after,  we  sat  in 
blackness,  waiting  for  the  thunder.  Far  off  it 
seemed  ,to  fall  clattering  down  some  vast  incline. 
Then  the  rain.  Thudding  torrents  that  threatened 
to  batter  in  the  skylight. 

Our  mother  came  out  of  her  room  in  time  to 
receive  the  next  flash  full  upon  her  face.  I  see 
the  light  now,  making  her  eyes  glitter  and  her 
paleness  ghostlike. 

She  drew  back  from  the  window.  Before  the 
13 


i4  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

lightning  died  I  had  seen  that  she  was  frightened. 
I  had  been  frightened,  too,  till  I  saw  that  she  was. 
In  the  impulse  to  reassure  her,  my  own  fear  left 
me.  I  went  to  her  in  that  second  blackness  and 
put  my  hand  in  hers.  When  I  could  see  again  I 
looked  through  the  streaming  window-pane,  as 
we  stood  there,  and  I  saw  a  man  sheltering  under 
the  chestnut-tree  at  our  gate.  He  lifted  his  um- 
brella, and  seemed  to  make  a  sign:  "  May  I  come 
in?" 

"  Why,  there  is  Colonel  Dover ! "  I  said,  and 
could  have  bitten  my  tongue.  My  mother  had 
moved  away.  She  seemed  not  to  hear,  not  to 
have  seen. 

I  stood,  half  behind  the  curtain,  praying  God 
to  keep  him  out.  I  prayed  so  hard  I  felt  my 
temples  prick  with  heat,  and  a  moisture  in  my 
hair.  A  blinding  flash  made  us  start  back.  Al- 
most simultaneously  came  a  shock  of  sound  like 
a  cannon  shot  off  in  the  house.  We  three  were 
clinging  together. 

1  That  struck  near  by,"  my  mother  said,  to  our 
relief,  for  we  had  thought  the  house  must  tumble 
to  pieces.  The  storm  slackened  after  that,  and 
daylight  struggled  back.  We  went  on  with  our 


A   THUNDER-STORM  15, 

playing.  I  noticed,  as  my  mother  went  down- 
stairs, that  she  kept  her  head  turned  away  from 
the  window. 

Presently  we  heard  unaccustomed  sounds  in  the 
hall.  The  tramping  and  scraping  of  heavy  feet. 
We  looked  over  the  banisters  and  saw  a  man 
being  carried  in  by  Kleiner  Klaus  and  our  gar- 
dener. The  man's  clothes  were  wet,  so  were  his 
face  and  hair.  It  was  Colonel  Dover,  staring 
with  fixed,  reproachful  eyes  at  the  lady  of  Dun- 
combe  House.  And  my  mother,  with  a  look  I 
had  never  seen  on  her  face,  stood  holding  open 
the  drawing-room  door  for  the  bearers  to  pass. 

Their  feet  left  muddy  marks  in  the  hall.  .  .  . 

We  did  not  go  downstairs  till  late  that  after- 
noon, when  the  body  had  been  taken  away. 

People  said  the  steel  ferule  of  the  umbrella 
had  attracted  the  electric  current. 

I  knew  God  had  heard  my  prayer. 

But  in  striking  down  my  enemy  he  had  struck 
the  chestnut-tree.  It  was  riven  from  foot  to 
crotch. 

That  was  the  day  I  had  in  mind  when  I  ex- 
cused my  laboured  playing:  "You  expect  me  to 
be  as  quick  as  God." 


CHAPTER  IV 

NIMBUS 

I  SEE  I  have  given  the  impression  that  Colonel 
Dover  was  the  cloud.  No.  He  was  only  a 
roll  of  thunder  behind  the  cloud.  I  have  put  off 
saying  more  about  the  cloud  because  of  the 
difficulty  in  making  anyone  else  understand  the 
larger,  vaguer  threat  on  our  horizon. 

Those  early  days,  as  I  have  said,  were  happy 
and  warmly  sheltered.  Yet  there  was  all  about 
us,  or  hovering  near  ready  to  swoop  down,  a 
sense  of  fear. 

I  hardly  know  how  we  came  first  to  feel  it  as 
a  factor  in  life.  A  thousand  impressions  stamped 
the  consciousness  deep  and  deeper  still.  A  fear, 
older  than  the  fear  of  Colonel  Dover,  and  apart 
from  any  danger  with  a  name.  A  thing  as  close 
to  life  as  the  flesh  to  our  bones. 

We  were  safe  there,  on  our  island  in  the 
heathery  sea,  only  as  people  are  safe  who  never 
trust  themselves  to  the  treachery  of  ships. 

My  mother  seemed  to  hug  the  thought  of  home 
it 


NIMBUS  17 

as  those  in  old  days  who  heard  a  wolf  howl  gave 
thanks  for  the  stout  stockade. 

More  times  than  I  can  count  I  have  seen  her 
coming  home  from  one  of  our  walks  with  that 
look,  half  dreaming,  half  vague  apprehension.  I 
have  seen  her  turn  that  look  back  on  Bettina, 
lagging:  "Soon  home,  now,  little  girl.  Soon  safe 
in  our  dear  home." 

I  remember  the  look  of  the  heath,  at  dusk,  on 
winter  days.  The  forbidding  grey  of  the  sky. 
The  clammy  chill.  A  white  fog  coming  out  of 
the  hollows — a  level  mist;  not  rising  high  at  first, 
but  rolling  nearer,  nearer,  like  the  ghost  of  an 
inundating  sea.  All  the  familiar  things  taking 
on  an  unreal  look.  A  silence,  and  a  shivering. 
Sometimes  the  dull  oppression  broken  by  a  birds' 
note.  Harsh  and  sudden.  A  danger  signal. 

I  see  us  linking  arms  and,  with  our  mother  be- 
tween us,  so  mend  the  pace  that  she  would  reach 
home  almost  breathless.  Nevertheless,  we  would 
hurry  indoors  and  shoot  the  bolt  behind  us  like 
people  who  knew  themselves  pursued. 

Perhaps  my  mother's  fear  had  grounds  we 
children  never  knew.  But  we  knew  that  the 
sound  of  a  door  shut,  and  a  bolt  shot,  was  music 


i8  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

in  her  ears.  Her  changed  "  home  "  face  was  like 
summer  come  again.  She  would  help  us  to  strip 
off  our  wraps,  and,  all  in  a  glow,  we  would  go  fly- 
ing to  the  haven  of  our  pretty  fire-bright  room 
with  its  gay  chintzes,  its  lamps  and  flowers.  One 
of  us  would  ring  for  tea;  another  would  draw 
chairs  about  the  blaze.  My  mother's  part  was 
to  close  the  heavy  inside  shutters,  'to  let  down 
across  the  panels  the  iron  bar,  and  draw  the  cur- 
tains. 

"  Now  we  are  safe  and  sound !  "  she  would  say. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  explain,  for  I  do  not  know 
how  it  was  that,  though  we  loved  our  walks, 
Bettina  and  I  came  to  share  her  sense  of  danger. 

In  the  beginning  we  may  have  felt  the  flight 
home  to  be  merely  a  kind  of  game.  A  playing  at 
Prisoner's  Base  with  the  threshold  of  Buncombe 
House  for  goal.  When  we  reached  there  (and 
only  in  the  nick  of  time!)  we  had  escaped  our 
enemy,  whether  Colonel  Dover  or  another.  We 
had  won.  We  had  barred  him  out. 

That  feeling  lasted  warm,  triumphant,  until 
bed-time.  Then,  heavy  wooden  shutters,  even 
with  iron  all  across,  were  no  avail.  Another 
enemy,  craftier,  deadlier  than  any  that  might 


NIMBUS  19 

haunt  the  heath  at  dusk,  had  got  into  the  house. 
He  was  in  hiding  all  the  cheerful  part  of  evening, 
when  lights  and  voices  were  about.  At  bed-time, 
in  dim  passages,  you  felt  his  breath  on  the  back 
of  your  neck.  He  never  faced  you.  Always  he 
was  behind  you.  But  he  was  never  at  his  dead- 
liest while  you  had  your  shoes  and  stockings  on. 
He  waited  behind  curtains  or  under  the  bed, 
to  clutch  at  your  bare  feet  as  you  jumped  in. 

I  try  not  to  read  into  the  influences  about  our 
childhood  more  than  was  there. 

Perhaps  our  fears  had  no  obscurer  origin  than 
the  humble  domestic  fact  that  my  mother  never 
trusted  the  servants  with  the  locking-up  of  the 
house.  We  saw  her  go  the  rounds  each  night, 
holding  a  candle  high  to  bolts,  or  low  to  locks 
and  catches.  I  believe  now  she  may  have  had 
only  some  natural  fear,  in  that  lonely  place,  of 
robbery.  But  for  us  children  the  Dread  was 
harder  to  fight  against,  being  bodyless. 

As  everyone  knows,  except  those  most  in  need 
of  knowing — I  mean  children — every  old  house  is 
an  orchestra  of  ghostly  sound.  One  room  at 
Duncombe,  in  particular,  was  an  eerie  place  to 
sit  in  when  the  winds  were  out.  You  heard  a 


20  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

kind  of  unearthly  music  played  there  on  winter 
evenings.  Sounds  so  remote  from  any  whistling, 
moaning,  or  other  wind  instrumentality,  that 
Bettina  and  I  spoke  of  it  in  whispers:  "  Now  the 
organ's  playing." 

Our  mother  heard  it,  too.  At  the  first  note  she 
would  lift  her  eyes  and  listen.  We  had  an  ob- 
scure feeling  that  she  heard  more  than  we — a 
something  behind  the  music.  Something  which 
we  strained  to  catch,  and  often  seemed  upon  the 
verge  of  understanding. 

There  is  no  more  characteristic  picture  of  my 
mother  in  my  mind  than  that  which  shows  her 
to  me  with  needle  arrested  over  work  slipping 
off  her  knee,  or  holding  a  page  half-turned,  her 
lifted  face  wearing  that  look,  listening,  fore- 
boding. 

There  is  something  more  expressive  in  the 
white  of  certain  eyes  than  in  the  iris.  The  white 
of  my  mother's  eyes  was  a  crystalline  blue-white. 
It  caught  the  light  and  glistened.  It  seemed  to 
respond  more  sensitively,  to  have  more  "  seeing  " 
in  it  than  was  in  the  pale  blue  iris.  The  contrast 
of  heavy  dark  lashes  may  have  lent  the  eye  that 
almost  startling  look  when  the  fringe  of  shadow 


NIMBUS  21 

lifted  suddenly,  and  the  eyeball  answered  to  the 
light. 

There  was  nothing  the  least  tragic  about  my 
mother's  usual  looks  or  moods.  She  was  merely 
gentle  and  aloof. 

She  helped  us  to  be  very  happy  children;  and 
if  she  made  us  sometimes  most  unhappy,  she  did 
so  unconsciously.  And  she  did  so  only  at  times 
when  she  must  have  been  unhappy,  too. 

She  played  for  us  to  dance.  And  she  played 
for  us  to  sing.  But  after  Bettina  and  I  had  gone 
through  our  gay  little  action  songs,  and  after  we 
had  sung  all  together  our  glees  and  catches,  we 
would  be  sent  upstairs  to  do  lessons  in  the  morn- 
ing-room— which  was  our  schoolroom  under  the 
cheerfuller  name. 

Then,  sitting  alone,  between  daylight  and  dark, 
our  mother  would  sing  for  herself  songs  of  such 
sadness  as  youth  could  hardly  bear.  I  think  we 
were  not  expected  to  hear  them.  We  would  open 
the  windows  on  that  side  in  mild  weather  to  hear 
the  better.  But  the  songs  were  sadder  when  we 
heard  them  faintly.  Have  you  ever  noticed 
that? 

I  would  sit  trying  to  fix  my  mind  on  lessons, 


22  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

listening  to  that  music  she  never  made   for  us. 

And  I  would  look  across  at  Bettina's  face,  all 
changed  and  overcast. 

Then  I  would  shut  the  window. 

Bettina  ought  never  to  hear  such  music. 

For  myself  I  wondered  uneasily  what  there 
could  be  in  the  beautiful  world  to  inspire  a  song 
like  that,  and  to  make  a  lady  sit  singing  it  "  be- 
tween the  lights." 

As  I  say,  when  the  sound  was  fainter  the  sad- 
ness of  it  pierced  us  deeper  still. 

As  we  two  sat  there,  formless  fears  crept  in 
and  crouched  in  the  shadowy  places. 

Oh,  we  were  glad  when  Martha  Loring's  face 
appeared,  with  the  lamp  and  consolatory  sugges- 
tions of  supper. 

Better  still,  the  blessed  times  when  the  music 
was  too  sad  even  for  our  mother — when  she 
would  break  off  and  come  to  find  us — help  us  to 
hurry  through  our  task,  and  then  for  reward 
(hers,  or  ours?  ...  I  never  quite  knew) 
open  the  satinwood  cabinet,  and  take  out  the  treas- 
ures and  let  us  see  and  handle  them.  All  but 
two.  We  had  been  allowed  to  hold  our  father's 
order  and  his  watch.  We  had  turned  over  the 


NIMBUS  23 

pretty  things  he  had  given  her;  we  knew  that  I 
was  to  have  the  diamond  star,  when  I  grew  up, 
and  Betty  was  to  have  the  pearl  and  emerald 
pendant.  Only  the  two  brass  buttons  we  might 
never  touch. 

We  never  knew  why  the  brass  buttons  were  so 
precious.  She  held  them  wonderfully — as  though 
they  were  alive. 

And  we,  too — we  were  always  happier  after  we 
had  seen  them. 

We  knew  that  she  felt,  somehow,  safer. 

So  did  we. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  MOTHER'S  vow 

WE'  had  no  knowledge  at  first  hand,  of  any  family 
life  except  our  own.  But  we  imagined  that  we 
made  up  for  any  loss  in  that  direction  by  follow- 
ing the  outward  fortunes  of  one  other  family, 
from  a  reverent  distance,  but  with  a  closeness  of 
devotion. 

In  that  mysterious  world  beyond  the  heath, 
we  divined  two  exhaustless  springs  of  enthusiasm : 
the  Army  and  the  Royal  Family. 

The  reason  for  the  first  is  clear. 

As  for  the  second,  we  never  guessed  that  our 
varied  knowledge  and  intimate  concern  about 
the  persons  of  the  reigning  house  was  a  common- 
place in  English  family  life  of  the  not  very 
strenuous  sort. 

Royal  personages  presented  themselves  to  our 
imagination,  partly  as  the  Fairly  Tale  element  in 
life,  partly  as  an  ideal  of  mortal  splendour,  partly 
as  symbols  of  our  national  greatness. 

From  fairy  queens  and  princes  no  great  step 
to  the  sea-king's  daughter,  or  to  her  sailor-son, 

24 


THE    MOTHER'S    VOW  25 

the  Prince  of  Wales.  His  wife,  that  Princess  of 
Wales,  who  even  before  her  marriage  had  been 
the  idol  of  England  was  our  idol  too — apart  from 
her  high  destiny  as  mother  of  the  future  King, 
(the  little  Prince  born  in  the  same  year  as  Bettina) 
— and  mother  of  that  fascinating  figure  in  the 
story,  the  solitary  Princess  of  her  house,  three 
years  younger  than  the  youngest  of  our  family. 
Our  interest  in  them  all  received  a  fresh  accession 
at  the  birth  of  Prince  Henry;  we  hailed  the  ad- 
vent of  Prince  George;  we  felt  the  succession 
trebly  sure  in  the  fortunate  arrival  of  Prince  John. 
We  saw  them  safely  christened;  we  consulted  the 
bulletins  in  the  Standard  and  the  Queen  about 
their  health;  we  followed  their  august  comings 
and  goings  with  an  enthusiasm  undampened  by 
hearing  how  well  they  were  all  being  brought  up 
on  the  incomparable  "  White  Lodge "  system, 
which  had  been  so  successfully  applied  to  the  little 
royalties'  mamma. 

Apart  from  these  Shining  Ones,  a  sense  of  the 
variety,  the  unexpectedness  of  life  to  lesser  folk, 
reached  us  through  the  changing  fortunes  of  one 
of  the  country-houses  that  abutted  on  the  heath. 

It  was  let  to  different  people,  from  time  to  time, 


26  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

for  the  hunting.  If  the  people  had  children,  they 
were  of  palpitating  interest  to  us,  even  though  we 
never  saw  much  of  the  children. 

Sometimes  the  fathers  and  mothers  scraped 
acquaintance  with  our  mother. 

If  they  had  seen  the  Brighton  doctor  driving 
up  to  our  door,  they  would  stop  to  ask  how  my 
mother  was. 

The  doctor  was  a  grim  man  with  a  stiff  grey 
beard.  He  said  my  mother  ought  to  have  a 
nurse.  She  said  she  had  me. 

That  was  the  proudest  moment  of  my  child- 
hood. 

I  had  to  try  very  hard  not  to  be  glad  when  she 
was  ill.  It  was  such  delight  to  nurse  her.  And 
after  all,  the  only  thing  she  herself  seemed  to 
mind  about  being  ill  was  not  having  Bettina  al- 
ways with  her. 

Bettina  was  too  little  to  understand  that  one 
must  be  quiet  in  a  sick  room. 

In  any  case  Bettina  never  wanted  to  stay  in- 
doors. So  she  would  escape,  and  run  about  the 
garden,  singing.  My  mother  made  us  wheel  her 
bed  to  the  window  that  she  might  look  out.  She 
would  lie  there,  watching  Bettina  play  at  church- 


THE    MOTHER'S    VOW  27 

choir  with  all  our  dolls  in  a  row,  and  tiny  home- 
made hymn-books  in  their  laps. 

When  a  butterfly  detached  the  leader  of  the 
choir,  and  Bettina  went  in  chase  to  the  other  side 
of  the  garden,  my  mother  would  say  anxiously: 
"  Someone  must  go  down  and  bring  Bettina  back." 

I  could  not  bear  to  see  Loring,  or  Melanie, 
doing  anything  for  my  mother.  I  think  they 
humoured  me,  and  that  Melanie  performed  her 
service  chiefly  by  stealth.  I  know  I  felt  it  to  be 
all  my  doing  when  the  invalid  was  able  to  come 
downstairs. 

She  sat  very  near  the  fire  though  the  day  was 
hot.  When  she  held  up  her  hand  to  shade  her 
eyes,  her  hand  was  different. 

Not  only  thin.     Different. 

***** 

Bettina  and  I  were  sorry  she  would  never  see 
the  one  or  two  kind  people  who  "  called  to  in- 
quire." 

We  had  come  early  to  know  that  her  refusal  to 
take  any  part  in  such  meagre  "  life  "  as  the  scat- 
tered community  offered  was  indeed  founded  upon 
"  indisposition,"  as  we  had  heard;  but  an  indis- 
position deeper  than  her  malady. 


28  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

We  never  knew  her  to  say:  these  card-playing, 
fox-hunting  people  are  our  inferiors.  But  she 
might  as  well.  We  read  her  thought. 

When  the  Marley  children  went  by  on  ponies, 
when  the  Reuters  bought  their  third  motor-car, 
Bettina  and  I  stifled  longing  and  curiosity  with 
the  puerilities  of  infant  arrogance:  Our  mother 
doesn't  mean  to  return  your  visit.  She  doesn't 
want  us  to  'sociate  with  your  children. 

In  our  hearts  we  longed  for  the  society  specially 
of  Dora  Marley.  Betty  used  to  slip  out  and 
show  Alexandra  to  Dora.  Alexandra  was  Betty's 
most  glorious  doll.  When  the  others  couldn't 
find  Betty  I  knew  where  to  look.  I  went  secretly, 
a  roundabout  way  through  the  shrubberies,  to 
bring  Betty  in,  reluctant  and  looking  back  at 
Dora:  "  Come  again  to-morrow?" 

One  day  Dora  shook  her  head. 

"  Why  not?  " 

She  was  going  back  to  school.  "  Aren't  you 
going  back  to  school?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  said,  "  we  don't  go  to  school." 

Dora  seemed  not  only  surprised,  but  inclined  to 
pity  us. 

"  You  like  having  to  go  to  school !  "  I  said. 


THE    MOTHER'S   VOW  29 

She  loved  it.     "  So  would  you." 

"  I  should  hate  it!  "  I  said  with  a  passion  of 
conviction. 

She  couldn't  think  why. 

Neither  could  I — beyond  the  fact  that  my 
mother  couldn't  go  with  me.  And  that  she  had 
said  of  the  Marley  children,  with  that  high  air  of 
pity — "  They  have  the  manners  of  girls  who  have 
not  been  brought  up  at  home." 

Dora  asked  if  we  didn't  hate  our  governess. 
She  was  still  more  mystified  to  hear  we  had  never 
had  one. 

Even  then  we  did  not  associate  that  lack  with 
poverty.  Rather  with  the  riches  of  our  mother's 
personal  accomplishments,  and  her  devotion  for 
her  children.  And  indeed  we  may  have  been 
partly  right.  I  think  if  she  had  been  a  millionaire 
she  would  not  willingly  have  shared  with  a 
strange  woman  those  hours  she  spent  with  us. 

We  read  a  great  deal  aloud.  My  mother  and 
I  took  turns.  Bettina  used  to  sit  over  the  em- 
broidery she  was  so  good  at,  and  I  so  hopeless. 
Or  she  would  sit  under  the  wild  broom  in  Caesar's 
Camp  watching  the  birds;  or  lie  curled  up  on  the 
sofa  stroking  Abdul,  the  blue  Persian.  Indoors 


30  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

or  out,  I  don't  think  Bettina  often  listened  to  the 
reading.  Perhaps  that  was  because  we  read  a 
good  deal  of  history.  Poetry  was  "  for  pleasure," 
our  mother  said.  But  it  had  to  be  translated  into 
singing  to  be  any  pleasure  to  Bettina.  I  loved 
it  all. 

Betty  was  two  years  younger  than  I,  but  no- 
body would  believe  I  was  not  the  elder  by  five 
years,  or  even  six.  I  was  proud  of  this,  seeing 
in  the  circumstance  my  sole  but  sufficient  advantage 
over  a  sister  excelling  in  all  things  else. 

I  am  not  to  be  understood  as  having  been 
envious  of  Bettina.  For  I  recognised  her  accom- 
plishments as  among  our  best  family  assets — re- 
flecting glory  on  us  all;  ranking  in  honour  after 
the  respect  shown  to  our  mother,  and  the  V.  C. 
our  father  won  in  the  Soudan.  But  my  thought- 
fulness  and  gravity  as  a  child,  my  being  cast  in 
a  larger,  soberer  mould,  lent  validity  to  my  as- 
sumption of  the  right  to  take  care  of  Bettina. 
Even  to  harry  her  now  and  then,  when  her  feet 
outstrayed  the  paths  appointed. 

Bettina  was  not  only  younger,  she  was  delicate; 
she  had  to  be  protected  against  colds,  against 
fatigue. 


THE    MOTHER'S    VOW  31 

There  is,  in  almost  every  house,  one  main  con- 
cern. 

When  I  look  back,  I  see  that  in  ours  the  main 
concern  was  Bettina.  If  she  had  been  less  sweet- 
natured,  she  would  have  been  made  intoler- 
able. 

But  the  great  need  of  being  loved  kept  Bettina 
lovable. 

I  cannot  remember  that  we  ever  spent  half  a 
day  away  from  each  other,  or  away  from  our 
mother,  until — but  that  is  to  come  later. 

I  feel  still  the  panic  that  fell  on  us  after  the 
excitement  of  seeing  the  good-natured  Mrs. 
Reuter  drive  up  in  her  motor-car — the  first  we 
had  encountered  at  close  quarters — a  jarring,  un- 
canny, evil-smelling  apparition  in  our  peaceful 
court.  Mrs.  Reuter  leaned  out  and  unfolded  her 
dreadful  errand — to  invite  us  children  to  come 
and  stay  at  her  house  in  Brighton  from  Friday  to 
Monday ! 

We  stood  there,  blank,  speechless. 

Our  mother,  with  a  presence  of  mind  for  which 
we  blessed  her,  said  she  could  not  spare  us;  she 
was  not  well;  I  was  a  famous  little  nurse. 

Relief    and    pride    rushed    together.     I    could 


32  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

have  kissed  my  mother's  feet.  My  own  could 
hardly  keep  from  dancing. 

"  Let  me  take  the  little  one,  then,"  said  this 
brutal  visitor. 

The  little  one  burst  into  large,  heart-rending 
sobs. 

Twenty  times  that  afternoon  the  little  one 
made  my  mother  say:  "  I  will  not  let  anyone  take 
you  away — no,  never.  Very  well,  you  shall  not 
pay  visits." 

And  Betty,  suspicious,  insistent :  "  Not  never?  " 

"  Not  never." 

Oh,  mother !  mother !  would  you  had  kept  your 
wordl 


CHAPTER  VI 

MARTHA'S  GOING — YET  REMAINING 

WHEN  I  was  thirteen  years  old  we  lost  our  ally, 
Martha  Loring.  She  had  been  with  us  since  she 
was  fifteen — at  first  a  little  scullery-maid.  Later, 
she  was  promoted,  and  became  a  person  much 
trusted,  in  spite  of  her  youth  and  her  love  of  fun. 

We  had  all  sorts  of  games  and  private  under- 
standings with  Martha.  She  was  a  genius  at 
furnishing  a  dolls'  house.  She  got  another  friend 
of  ours  to  make  us  a  dresser  for  Alexandra's 
kitchen.  This  other  gifted  person  was  Peter,  one 
of  Big  Klaus's  sons.  He  was  almost  twenty,  and 
he  used  to  bring  the  vegetables.  We  did  not 
know  why  he  could  never  bring  us  our  presents 
at  the  same  time — perhaps  out  of  fear  of  the 
cook,  who  held  strict  views  upon  the  wickedness 
of  eating  between  meals.  She  was  elderly,  and 
very  easily  annoyed. 

She  never  knew  that  that  clever  Peter  circum- 
vented her  by  climbing  over  the  orchard  wall  with 
our  red  apples  and  with  pockets  full  of  the  hazel- 
nuts  we  loved.  Martha  Loring  told  us  that,  if 

33 


34  MY   LITTLE   SISTER 

ever  we  spoke  of  these  gifts,  they  would  be  for- 
bidden, and  Peter  would  never  come  any  more. 
So  we  were  most  careful. 

So  was  Peter. 

So  careful  that  he  brought  his  gifts  after  dark. 
Martha  used  to  have  to  go  down  the  garden  and 
wait  for  them — wait  so  long,  sometimes,  that  we 
fell  asleep,  and  only  got  Peter's  presents  in  the 
morning. 

Martha  had  laughing  brown  eyes  and  full 
scarlet  lips.  No  wonder  we  were  impressed  by 
the  transformation  of  this  cheerful  and  familiar 
presence  into  something  heavy-eyed  and  secret. 
One  morning  she  came  out  of  our  mother's  room 
sobbing,  and  went  away  without  saying  good-bye 
— though  she  wasn't  ever  coming  back,  the  cook 
said. 

Our  mother  was  so  unwell  that  day  she  did  not 
want  even  me  in  the  room. 

In  the  evening  Bettina  and  I  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  ask  Mrs.  Ransom  what  had  become  of 
Martha. 

Mrs.  Ransom  was  in  a  bad  temper.  She  said 
roughly  that  Martha  had  gone  under. 

"Under?     Under  what?" 


MARTHA'S    GOING  35 

Mrs.  Ransom  said,  "Sh!" 

I  went  back  to  the  kitchen  alone,  and  begged 
the  cook  to  tell  me  what  had  happened.  She 
was  angrier  than  ever,  and  said  the  young  ladies 
where  she  lived  before  never  asked  questions, 
and  would  never  have  fashed  themselves  about  a 
housemaid  who  was  a  horrid  person. 

I  was  angry,  too,  at  that,  and  told  her  she  was 
jealous  of  Martha.  She  chased  me  out  with  a 
hot  frying-pan. 

We  felt  justified  in  disbelieving  all  Mrs.  Ran- 
som had  said  when  we  found  out  that  Martha  had 
not  "  gone  under  "  at  all.  She  had  gone  to  stay 
with  the  family  of  Little  Klaus.  But  our  mother 
said  Little  Klaus's  wife  ought  not  to  have  taken 
Martha  in.  And  she  wrote  Mrs.  Klaus  a  letter. 

As  for  us,  we  were  never  to  speak  to  Martha 
again.  And  we  were  not  to  go  near  Little 
Klaus's  cottage  as  long  as  Martha  stayed  there. 
Very  soon  she  went  away. 

We  were  reminded  of  Martha  whenever  a 
beggar  came  to  the  back-door,  or  a  dusty  man  on 
the  heath-road  asked  us  for  his  fare  to  Brighton. 

Martha  would  have  told  the  beggar  to  go  and 
wait  in  the  first  clump  of  gorse.  And  she  would 


36  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

have  smuggled  food  out  to  him.  She  used  to 
borrow  our  threepenny-bits  to  make  up  the  dusty 
man's  fare.  But  she  always  paid  us  back. 

I  knew  quite  well  why  Mrs.  Klaus  had  been 
kind  to  Martha.  For  a  whole  year  the  Klauses 
had  been  having  bad  luck.  One  of  the  children 
died.  And,  what  seemed  to  be  much  more  seri- 
ous, something  happened  to  the  horse.  He  died, 
too.  So  the  Klauses  had  no  horse  at  all  now,  but 
they  had  four  little  children  left.  And  one  or 
other  of  the  children  was  always  cutting  or  bruis- 
ing himself,  or  else  falling  ill.  Martha  would 
tell  me  about  them.  She  and  I  would  collect 
pieces  of  flannel  or  linen  for  bandages;  and 
Martha  would  take  mustard  over  to  the  cottage 
for  plasters,  and  bread  and  milk  for  poultices. 
The  little  Klauses  needed  a  fearful  lot  of  poul- 
tices. 

Martha  was  sure  of  my  sympathy  in  these 
ministrations,  because  of  a  peculiarity  of  mine. 
When  I  was  still  quite  a  little  girl  my  mother  had 
admitted  my  skill  in  making  compresses.  I  could 
take  temperatures,  too,  and  I  learned  how  to  pre- 
pare invalid  foods.  I  found  a  fascinating  book 
thrust  away  behind  Gibbon's  "  Decline  and  Fall." 


MARTHA'S    GOING  37 

The  book  was  called  "  Household  Medicine."  I 
read  it  a  great  deal — especially  when  one  of  the 
little  Klauses  had  a  new  symptom.  If  I  refrained 
from  hoping  my  mother  and  sister  might  have 
more  and  worse  maladies,  that  I  might  nurse 
them  back  to  health,  I  would  willingly  have 
sacrificed  the  servants.  So  that  the  diseases  that 
attacked  the  little  Klauses  were  a  godsend  to  me. 
I  glanced  at  those  unfortunates,  as  I  passed,  with 
the  eye  of  the  specialist.  Yet  often,  to  my  shame, 
I  could  detect  no  sign  of  their  sufferings. 

One  day  I  heard  wailing  as  Betty  and  I  went 
by.  I  told  Betty  to  walk  on  slowly  and  wait 
by  the  Dew  Pond.  And  I  made  my  first  visit 
to  Mrs.  Klaus.  She  was  in  bed  in  the  tiny  inner 
room,  nursing  the  new  baby.  Mr.  Klaus  was 
sitting  by  the  kitchen  fire,  with  his  back  to  the 
door.  He  had  Jimmy  in  his  arms.  Jimmy  had 
been  the  baby.  His  little  face,  all  crumpled  with 
crying,  looked  at  me  over  his  father's  shoulder. 
He  had  been  like  this  for  two  days. 

"  Just  pining,"  they  said,  with  the  resignation  of 
the  poor.  We  parted  upon  the  understanding 
that  the  thing  for  them  to  do  was  to  give  Jimmy 
a  warm  bath,  and  no  tea  or  bacon  for  supper; 


38  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

and  the  thing  for  me  to  do  was  to  send  him  some 
proper  food — all  of  which  was  done  in  collusion 
with  Martha. 

I  was  not  a  secretive  person,  but  I  had  learned 
years  before  that  my  mother  was  unwilling  that 
we  should  ever  go  into  any  of  the  cottages.  Not 
even  for  shelter  in  a  storm  were  we  to  cross  one 
of  those  thresholds.  I  felt  sure  that  this  pre- 
caution was  on  Betty's  account. 

I  never  let  Bettina  go  into  the  cottage.  In- 
deed, she  never  wished  to.  That  instinctive 
shrinking  from  ugliness  and  suffering  seemed 
quite  natural  in  a  rose-leaf  creature  like  Bettina. 
But  I  was  made  of  commoner  clay.  And  long 
after  she  had  left  us  I  missed  that  other  piece  of 
common  clay,  Martha  Loring. 

The  thought  of  Martha  was  specially  vivid  in 
my  mind  on  one  occasion  two  years  or  more  after 
she  "  went  under." 

Bettina  caught  one  of  her  dreadful  colds.  But 
we  had  made  her  well  again — so  well  that  she 
insisted  on  going  for  a  walk. 

My  mother  wrapped  her  warmly,  and  I  knelt 
down  and  put  on  her  leggings  and  overshoes. 

But,   after  all,  we  only  stayed  out  about  ten 


MARTHA'S    GOING  39 

minutes.  My  mother  said  the  air  was  raw,  and 
"  not  safe." 

At  luncheon  Bettina  was  urged  to  eat  more. 
Though,  as  I  say,  she  seemed  quite  well  again,  she 
had  not  recovered  her  appetite.  Her  normal 
appetite  was  small  and  fastidious.  Often  special 
dainties  had  to  be  prepared  to  tempt  Bettina. 
And  I  remember,  for  a  reason  that  will  be  obvious 
later — I  remember  we  had  delicious  things  to  eat 
that  day.  Unluckily,  Bettina  wasn't  hungry, 
and  she  grew  rather  fretful  at  being  urged  to  eat 
more  than  she  wanted. 

My  mother  remembered  a  tonic  that  she  some- 
times made  Bettina  take. 

When  she  had  helped  us  to  pudding,  she  went 
upstairs  to  find  the  tonic,  because  she  was  the 
only  one  who  knew  where  it  was.  The  moment 
she  had  gone,  Bettina  sprang  up  and  scraped  her 
favourite  pudding  into  the  fire.  We  laughed  to- 
gether, and  recalled  her  evil  ways  as  a  baby. 
Always  there  had  been  this  trouble  to  make 
Bettina  eat — specially  breakfast.  My  mother 
and  I  used  to  be  tired  out  waiting  while  my  sister, 
sitting  in  her  high-chair,  nibbled  toast  a  crumb  at 
a  time,  and  let  her  bacon  grow  cold.  So  a 


40  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

punishment  had  to  be  invented.  Bettina,  who 
dearly  loved  society,  must  be  left  alone  to  finish 
breakfast — a  plan  that  seemed  to  work,  for  when 
one  of  us  went  back  in  a  few  minutes,  Bettina's 
plate  would  be  bare.  Then  the  awful  discovery 
one  day,  in  cleaning  out  a  seldom-opened  part  of 
the  side-board — a  great  collection  of  toast  and 
bits  of  mouldy  bacon,  pushed  quite  to  the  back 
of  the  capacious  drawer. 

While  we  sat  laughing  over  the  old  misdeed, 
feeling  very  grown  up  now  and  superior,  a  face 
looked  in  at  the  window — a  pinched,  unhappy  face, 
with  hungry  eyes.  A  woman  stood  out  there, 
holding  a  baby  wrapped  in  a  shawl.  The  win- 
dow was  shut,  for  the  rain  had  begun  as  we  sat 
down — heavy  leaden  drops  out  of  a  leaden  sky. 

I  ran  and  opened  the  window.  "  What  is  it?  " 
I  said,  quite  unnecessarily.  The  woman  told  us 
she  had  started  for  the  hop-fields  that  morning. 
She  had  no  money  to  pay  a  railway  fare,  but  a 
man  had  given  her  a  lift  as  far  as  the  village. 
She  did  not  know  how  she  was  going  to  reach 
the  hop-fields. 

At  that  moment  I  heard  my  mother's  voice. 
"What  are  you  doing?  Shut  the  window  in- 


MARTHA'S    GOING  41 

stantly!  "  And  as  I  was  not  quick  about  it,  she 
came  behind  me  and  shut  the  window  sharply. 
What  was  I  thinking  of?  Had  I  no  regard  for  my 
little  sister,  sitting  there  in  the  current  of  raw 
air?  Really,  she  had  thought  me  old  enough  by 
now  to  be  trusted! 

Seldom  had  I  been  so  scolded.  I  forgot  for  a 
moment  about  the  woman.  I  remembered  her 
only  when  I  saw  my  mother  make  a  gesture  over 
my  head.  "  Go  away!  " 

"  Oh,  but  she  is  tired  and  wet,"  I  said,  and  I 
tried  to  tell  her  story.  My  mother  interrupted 
me.  Hop-pickers  were  a  very  low  class.  They 
were  dirty  and  verminous,  and  spread  infectious 
diseases. 

"  Go  away !  "  she  said.    And  again  that  gesture. 

I  felt  myself  choking.  "She  is  hungry,"  I 
whispered. 

My  mother  measured  out  the  tonic. 

My  first  misgiving  about  her  shook  the  founda- 
tions of  existence.  Other,  lesser  instances,  came 
back  to  me — strange  lapses  into  hardness  on  the 
part  of  so  tender  a  being.  What  did  they  mean? 
If  I  scratched  my  arm,  she  would  fly  for  a  sooth- 
ing lotion,  and  help  healing  with  soft  words.  If 


42  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Bettina  pinched  her  finger,  the  whole  house  would 
be  stirred  .up  to  sympathise.  No  smallest  ache  or 
ailing  of  ours  but  our  mother's  sensitiveness 
shared.  And  yet  .  .  . 

The  woman  with  her  burden  had  moved  away 
— a  draggled  figure  in  the  rain. 

A  horrible  feeling  sprang  up  in  my  heart — an 
impulse  of  actual  hatred  towards  my  mother — as 
the  hop-picker  disappeared. 

Hatred  of  Bettina,  too. 

I  kept  thinking  of  the  pudding  in  the  fire.  And 
of  Martha  Loring.  If  Martha  Loring  had  been 
in  the  kitchen,  she  would  somehow  have  got  food 
to  the  woman,  and  a  few  pence.  The  image  of 
Martha  Loring  shone  bright  above  the  greyness 
of  that  wretched  time. 

Looking  back,  I  say  to  myself:  "Not  all  in 
vain,  perhaps,  the  life  of  the  little  servant  who 
had  been  turned  out  of  doors."  At  Duncombe, 
where  she  had  had  her  time  of  happiness,  where 
she  had  served  and  suffered,  something  of  her 
spirit  still  survived. 

Martha  Loring  sat  that  day  in  judgment  on 
my  mother.  And  I  was  torn  with  the  misery  of 
having  to  admit  the  sentence  just. 


MARTHA'S    GOING  43 

I  became  critical  of  matters  never  questioned 
before.  I  fell  foul  of  Bettina.  She  was  selfish. 
She  was  vain.  And  her  hair  was  turning  pink. 

It  was  true  that  the  paler  gold  of  early  child- 
hood was  warming  to  a  sort  of  apricot  shade, 
infinitely  lovely.  But  "  pink  hair  "  was  accounted 
libellous.  And,  anyhow,  it  was  a  crime  to  tease 
Bettina. 

Wasn't  it  worse,  I  demanded,  groping  among 
the  new  perceptions  dawning — wasn't  it  worse  for 
Bettina  to  tease  a  dumb  animal? 

The  "  worse,"  I  was  shrewd  to  note,  was  not 
admitted.  But  "  Of  course,  Bettina  must  not 
tease  the  cat." 

With  unloving  eyes  I  watched  my  mother  lift 
an  ugly  black  spider  very  gently  in  a  handkerchief, 
and  put  the  creature  out  to  safety. 

But  that  haggard  hop-picker — no,  I  couldn't 
understand  it. 

The  hop-picker  haunted  me. 

Then  I  made  a  compact  with  her.  For  her 
sake  I  would  contrive,  somehow,  to  give  bread  to 
any  hungry  man  or  woman  who  should  go  by. 
"  And  so,"  I  addressed  the  hop-picker  in  my 
thoughts,  "  though  you  had  no  bread  for  yourself, 


44  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

you  will  be  the  means  of  giving  bread  to  others." 

The  hop-picker  accepted  the  arrangement. 
Peace  came  back. 

In  the  vague  pagan  fashion  of  the  young  I 
thought,  too,  that  by  kind  deeds  I  might  pay  off 
my  mother's  score.  Her  fears  for  us  somehow 
prevented  her  from  feeling  for  other  people's 
children.  Something  I  didn't  know  about  had 
made  her  like  that. 

In  my  struggle  to  resolve  the  discord  between 
a  nagging  conscience,  and  my  adoration  for  my 
mother,  I  seemed  to  leave  childhood  behind. 

Still,  very  dimly,  if  at  all,  could  I  have  realised 
there  was  any  connection  between  her  continued 
shrinking  from  our  fellow-creatures,  and  that  old 
nameless  fcar  we  used  to  bar  the  door  against. 
Yet  in  one  guise  or  another,  Fear  still  was  at  the 
gate.  Yesterday  the  menace  of  Bettina's  illness. 
To-day  a  hop-picker,  bringing  a  whiff  of  the  sick 
world's  infection  through  our  windows. 

To-morrow? 


CHAPTER  VII    . 

A  SHOCK 

WHEN  to-morrow  came  we  knew. 

We  had  been  using  up  our  capital. 

Another  year,  at  this  rate,  and  it  would  be  gone. 
What  was  to  become  of  us? 

Should  we  have  to  sell  Buncombe  House?  I 
asked. 

Only  then  we  heard  that  Buncombe  belonged 
to  Lord  Helmstone. 

But  the  rent  was  low.  My  mother  said  "  at 
the  worst,"  we  would  go  on  living  at  Buncombe. 
Yes,  even  if  we  kept  only  one  servant  instead 
of  three. 

For  we  would  still  have  the  tiny  pension  granted 
an  officer's  widow. 

And  should  we  always  have  the  pension? 

Yes,  as  long  as  she  lived. 

Not  "  always  "  then. 

***** 

A  horrible  feeling  of  helplessness,  a  sense  of 
the  bigness  of  the  world  and  of  our  littleness, 
came  down  upon  me. 

45 


46  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

We  seemed  to  have  almost  no  relations. 

We  knew  our  father  had  a  step-sister,  a  good 
deal  older  than  he.  We  heard  that  she  lived  in 
London  and  was  childless.  That  was  all. 

My  mother  had  been  an  orphan.  She  never 
seemed  to  want  to  talk  about  the  past.  When 
we  were  little  we  took  no  interest  in  these  things. 
As  we  grew  older  we  grew  afraid  of  paining  her 
with  questions.  In  some  crisis  of  house-cleaning 
a  photograph  came  to  the  surface.  Who  was  this 
with  the  hair  rolled  high  and  the  pear-shaped 
earrings?  Oh,  that  was  Mrs.  Harborough. 

"Aunt  Josephine?" 

"  Well,  your  father's  step-sister." 

All  hope  of  better  acquaintance  with  her  was 
dashed  by  learning  that  she  had  opposed  our 
father's  marriage,  opposed  it  bitterly. 

"  She  couldn't  have  known  you,"  Bettina  said. 

"  That  I  was  not  known  to  her  was  crime 
enough,"  my  mother  answered  with  unwonted  bit- 
terness. 

Just  as  we  were  made  to  feel  that  questions 
about  Aunt  Josephine  were  troubling,  I  felt  now 
that  to  inquire  into  our  precise  financial  condition 
was  to  harass  and  depress  my  mother.  The  con- 


A    SHOCK  47 

dition  was  bad.     Therefore  it  was  best  covered 
up. 

"  We  shall  manage,"  she  said. 

I  was  sixteen  when  this  thunder-bolt  descended, 
and,  by  that  time,  I  knew  that  "  to  manage  "  was 
just  what  my  mother,  at  all  events,  was  quite  in- 
capable of  doing.  We  still  kept  three  servants 
and  no  accounts.  Lawyers'  letters  were  put  away. 
Out  of  sight,  they  seemed  to  be  out  of  mind.  Out 
of  my  mother's  mind. 

I  thought  constantly  about  these  things. 

One  day,  months  later,  I  blurted  out  a  hope 
that  we  should  all  die  together.  My  mother  was 
horrified. 

"  But  if  we  don't,"  I  said,  "  how  are  we  going 
to  live — Bettina  and  I,  without  the  pension?" 

"  You  will  have  husbands,  I  hope,  to  take  care 
of  you." 

I  went  over  the  grounds  for  this  "  hope  "  with 
no  great  confidence. 

My  mother  went  alone  into  the  garden. 

She  came  in  looking  tired  and  white. 

Compunction  seized  me.  I  persuaded  her  to 
go  and  lie  down.  I  would  bring  up  her  tea-tray. 
I  expected  to  have  to  beg  and  urge.  But  she  went 


48  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

upstairs  "  quite  goodly,"  as  we  used  to  say.  She 
looked  back  and  smiled.  She  was  still  the  most 
beautiful  person  we  knew.  But  it  was  a  very 
waxen  beauty  now.  I  must  learn  not  to  weary 
her  with  insoluble  riddles.  I  went  into  the  dining- 
room  to  make  her  tray  ready — I  liked  doing  it 
myself.  Bettina's  voice  came  floating  in.  She 
had  grown  tired  of  playing  proper  music.  She 
was  singing  the  nursery  rhyme  which  my  mother 
had  set  to  variations  of  the  tinkling  old-world 
tune: 

"  Where  are  you  going  to,  my  pretty  maid?  " 

I  thought  how  strange  and  wonderful  was  the 
simplest,  most  ordinary  little  life.  There  must  al- 
ways be  that  question :  what  is  going  to  become  of 
me?  I  had  long  known  what  was  the  proper 
thing  to  happen.  I  ought  to  marry  Lord  Helm- 
stone's  heir.  And  Bettina  should  marry  a  prince. 

But  Lord  Helmstone's  heir  turned  out  to  be  a 
middle-aged  cousin  with  a  family.  Lord  Helm- 
stone  himself  had  only  lately  taken  to  coming  to 
Forest  Hall — since  the  laying  out  of  the  golf- 
course.  Still  less  frequently  came  my  lady.  Very 


A   SHOCK  49 

smart,  with  amazing  clothes;  and  some  married 
daughters  with  babies.  There  were  two  daugh- 
ters unmarried,  who  seemed  to  be  always  abroad 
or  in  London.  We  liked  Lord  Helmstone;  even 
my  mother  liked  him  But  she  criticised  his 
"  noisy  friends."  These  were  the  golfers  who 
motored  down  from  London.  Broad-shouldered 
men,  in  tweeds  that  made  them  seem  broader  still. 
They  would  pass  by  our  garden-wall  and  look  at 
Bettina.  Often  when  they  had  passed  they  looked 
back.  Secretly,  I  wondered  if  any  of  them  were 
those  "  husbands  "  who  were  going  to  take  care 
of  us.  Some  lodged  in  the  village.  The  noisiest 
stayed  at  the  Hall. 

Bettina's  singing  had  broken  off  abruptly.  I 
heard  her  running  upstairs. 

And  then  a  cry. 

"  Come — oh,  quickly,  quickly!" 

Bettina  had  heard  the  fall  overhead. 

Our  mother  lay  on  the  floor,  Bettina  standing 
over  her,  agonised,  helpless. 

We  lifted  her  on  to  the  bed.  We  loosened  her 
clothing,  and  brought  water,  and  bathed  her  tem- 
ples. 


50  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled — then  the  lids 
went  down.  Still  that  look,  the  look  that  made 
her  a  stranger. 

Was  this  death?  .  .  . 

Bettina  shrank  from  it.  But  I  told  her  not  to 
leave  the  room  a  second.  I  would  bring  the  doc- 
tor quickly. 

Bettina's  face.  ...  "I  cannot  stay  alone,"  she 
whispered. 

"  I  will  send  up  one  of  the  servants." 

She  held  my  arm.  "  Suppose  .  .  .  while  you 
are  gone Oh,  I  am  afraid." 

"  I  will  run  all  the  way,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ANNAN 

I  COULD  not  speak  when  I  reached  the  village. 
They  gave  me  water. 

I  had  in  any  case  to  wait  a  moment  till  the  post- 
master was  free,  for  I  could  not  use  the  telephone 
myself.  My  mother  had  a  horror  of  our  touching 
the  public  one.  She  had  spoken  with  disgust  of 
the  mouthpiece  that  everybody  breathed  into. 
"  Full  of  germs !  "  Then  it  must  be  bad  for  other 
people,  we  said.  "  Other  people  must  take  their 
chance."  I  remembered  that  as  I  leaned  against 
the  counter,  panting,  while  the  postmaster  wrote 
out  a  telegram.  We  were  "  taking  the  chance  " 
now.  Such  a  little  thing — my  not  knowing  how 
to  telephone.  Yet  it  might  cost  my  mother  her 
life. 

The  postmaster  rang  up  Brighton. 

The  doctor  was  out. 

What  could  be  done  but  leave  a  message! 

I  would  go  to  the  Helmstones  and  ask  for  a 
motor-car.  Why  had  I  not  thought  of  that  be- 
fore? 


52  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Then  the  postmaster  said  that  the  Helmstones 
had  all  left  for  London  that  morning.  He  had 
seen  them  go  by.  Two  motors  full.  He  recom- 
mended the  doctor  at  Littlecombe.  If  I  waited 
a  while,  the  baker's  cart  would  come  back  from 
its  rounds,  and  I  could  send,  or  go  myself  with 
the  driver  to  Littlecombe. 

"Wait"?  There  was  that  at  Buncombe  that 
would  not  wait.  For  me,  too,  waiting  was  the 
one  impossible  thing.  I  cast  about  in  my  dis- 
tracted mind. 

That  new  acquaintance  of  the  Helmstone's! 
Was  he  not  a  sort  of  a  doctor?  "  The  scientific 
chap,"  as  his  lordship  called  the  man  who  had 
taken  rooms  at  Big  Klaus's  farm.  Lord  Helm- 
stone  had  complained  of  his  Scotch  arrogance — 
"  frankly  astonished  if  a  Southron  makes  a  decent 
drive."  We  had  not  seen  him — at  least,  not  to 
distinguish  an  arrogant  Scot  from  other  golfers. 

I  ran  most  of  the  way  to  the  farm. 

As  I  stood  waiting  for  the  door  to  open,  a  man 
came  up  the  path  with  golf  clubs.  Tallish.  In 
careless  clothes,  otherwise  of  a  very  un-careless  as- 
pect. In  those  seconds  of  watching  the  figure 
come  up  the  pathway  with  a  sort  of  rigidity  of 


ANNAN  53 

gait,  I  received  an  impression  of  something  so  re- 
strained and  chilling  that  I  hoped  he  was  not  the 
man  I  had  come  for.  In  any  case  this  was  not  a 
person  before  whom  one  would  care  to  show  emo- 
tion. I  asked  if  he  were  Mr.  Annan.  Yes,  his 
name  was  Annan.  His  tone  asked:  and  what 
business  was  it  of  mine?  But  he  halted  there, 
below  me,  as  I  stood  on  the  step  explaining  very 
briefly  my  errand. 

He  did  not  want  to  come;  I  could  see  that. 

He  made  some  excuse  about  not  being  a  general 
practitioner. 

I  was  sorry  I  had  spoken  in  that  self-possessed 
way.  I  saw  I  had  given  him  no  idea  of  the  ur- 
gency of  our  need.  I  had  to  explain  that  all  we 
asked  of  him  was  to  give  some  help  at  once.  And 
only  for  once.  Our  regular  doctor  would  be  with 
us  very  soon. 

He  seemed  slow-witted,  for  he  stood  there  sev- 
eral seconds,  with  one  free  hand  pulling  at  his 
rough  moustache  of  reddish-brown. 

"  We  mustn't  lose  time,"  I  said. 

As  I  led  the  way,  I  heard  the  door  open  behind 
me,  and  the  sound  of  golf  clubs  thrown  down  in  a 
stone  passage. 


54  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

He  caught  up  with  me  at  the  gate,  and  we 
walked  rapidly  across  Big  Klaus's  fields.  While 
we  were  going  by  the  pond,  in  the  lower  meadow, 
a  moorhen  scuttled  to  her  nest  in  the  tangle  on 
the  bank.  Her  creaking  cry  had  always  sounded 
so  cheerful  since  my  mother  pointed  out  that  the 
mechanic  "click!  click!"  was  like  a  Christmas 
toy.  To-day  I  knew  it  for  a  warning. 

The  man  had  caught  up  a  stick.  He  struck 
sharply  with  it,  as  he  passed,  at  the  tall  nettles 
growing  in  the  ditch. 

What  was  happening  at  home  all  this  time?  I 
began  to  walk  faster,  with  a  great  misery  at  my 
heart.  What  was  the  good  of  this  man  who 
wasn't  a  general  practitioner?  He  was  too  like 
all  the  other  broad-shouldered  young  golfers  in 
Norfolk  jackets — far  too  like  them,  to  help  in  so 
dire  a  need  as  ours. 

I  tried  to  hearten  myself  by  recalling  what  Lord 
Helmstone  had  said  of  him.  That  "  the  bigwigs 
in  the  world  of  science  spoke  of  Annan  with  en- 
thusiasm." "  An  original  mind."  "  A  demon 
for  work"  (that  was,  perhaps,  why  he  hadn't 
wanted  to  come  with  me).  Odds  and  ends  came 
back.  "  Annan  would  go  far."  He  had  gone  too 


ANNAN  55 

far  in  the  direction  of  overwork.  He  had  been 
urged  to  come  down  here  and  play  golf.  Still, 
he  worked  long  hours.  .  .  . 

And  while  I  recalled  these  things,  in  the  back 
of  my  head,  I  kept  repeating:  "  Mother,  mother! 
I  am  bringing  help." 

We  did  not  talk,  except  for  my  turning  suddenly 
to  warn  him  that  my  younger  sister  was  not  to 
know  if  my  mother 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  he  said.  I  felt  he  understood.  I 
walked  faster — almost  at  a  run.  He  did  not  seem 
to  notice.  His  long  strides  kept  him  near  me 
without  an  effort. 

Mother,  mother! 

Oh,  how  wildly  the  birds  were  singing!  She 
had  said  that  only  we  ever  noticed  the  special 
quality  in  the  vesper  song.  Something  the  morn- 
ing never  heard.  The  air  was  filled  with  a  pas- 
sion of  that  belated  singing.  "  Good-night,"  I 
heard  her  say,  "  is  better  than  good-morning." 

Oh,  mother !  if  that  is  so  for  you,  think  of  your 
children. 

Did  the  stranger  object  to  jumping  ditches  and 
climbing  stiles? 

"  I  am  taking  you  the  short  cut,"  I  said. 


56  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  Of  course." 

We  were  coming  to  the  copse  on  the  edge  of 
the  heath.  The  hawthorn  foamed  along  the  outer 
fringe.  This  was  where  we  met  Colonel  Dover 
all  those  years  ago.  Every  inch  of  the  way  I  saw 
pictures  of  my  mother.  All  that  gentleness  and 
beauty 

What  a  richness  had  been  lavished  on  our  lives ! 

I  had  never  begun  to  understand  it  before  this 
evening — never  once  had  thanked  her. 

Mother,  mother! 

The  copse  was  full  of  her.  Her  figure  went 
before  me  between  the  bare  larch  boles,  taking  care 
not  to  tread  on  flowers.  The  ground  was  a  sheet 
of  blue  when  we  had  last  come  here.  The  time 
of  wild  hyacinths  was  nearly  over  now.  And  her 

time Was  that  nearly  over  too?  Where 

would  she  be  when  the  foxgloves  stood  tall  here 
among  the  bracken?  The  larch  stems  wavered 
and  the  hazels  shivered.  The  man  was  on  in 
front  now,  the  first  to  cross  the  outermost  stile. 
As  I  hurried  after  him,  he  looked  back.  I  did 
not  know  until  I  met  his  eyes  that  mine  were  wet 
.  .  .  and  that  I  was  walking  not  quite  steadily. 
I  had  run  a  long  way  that  evening. 


ANNAN  57 

"  Rest  a  moment,"  he  said;  and  he  looked  away 
from  me  and  up  at  the  flowering  may.  "  The 
scent  is  very  heavy,"  he  said.  "  I  knew  a  woman 
once  who  was  always  made  faint  by  it." 

He  did  not  look  at  me  again. 

But  I  had  seen  that  those  hard  eyes  could  look 
kind. 

***** 

Now  we  could  see  the  red  tile  roof. 

Underneath  it  what  was  happening?  I  had 
been  long  gone,  for  all  my  running. 

As  we  came  across  the  links,  the  sun  went  down 
behind  the  wall  of  Duncombe  garden. 

Oh,  sun !  I  prayed,  do  not  go  down  for  ever. 

Before  I  entered  the  house  a  strange  thing  hap- 
pened. 

A  great  peace  fell  on  me. 

I  knew,  without  asking,  that  all  was  well. 

Was  that  a  blackcap  singing?  And  had  I  seen 
the  sun  go  down?  What  magic  light  was  this, 
then,  that  was  shining  on  the  world? 

***** 

He  saw  my  mother,  and  told  us  what  to  do. 


58  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Bettina  stayed  with  her,  while  I  came  down 
with  Mr.  Annan  to  hear  his  verdict 

As  we  stood  in  the  lower  hall,  I  looked  up  to 
find  his  eyes  on  me — eyes  suddenly  so  gentle  that 
terror  fell  on  me  afresh. 

"  You  don't  think  she  is  going  to  die?  " 

"  Good  nursing,"  he  said,  "  will  make  a  dif- 
ference. One  must  always  hope " 

"Oh,  you  must  save  us!  "  I  said  incoherently; 
and  then  corrected:  "  My  mother!  .  .  ." 

He  seemed  to  accept  the  charge.  He  would 
come  back  early  in  the  morning. 

***** 

I  never  found  the  bridge  between  that  passion 
of  dread  about  my  mother's  life — and  the  strange 
new  passion  that  took  possession  of  me,  body  and 
soul. 

Like  the  dart  of  a  kingfisher  out  of  the  shade 
of  a  thicket  into  intensest  sunshine,  the  new  thing 
flashed  across  my  life,  all  emerald  and  red-gold 
and  azure — a  blinding  iridescence,  and  a  quick- 
ness that  was  like  the  quickness  of  God. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ERIC 

FOR  a  long  time  I  said  nothing  in  his  presence, 
except  in  answer  to  some  direction. 

There  seemed  no  need  to  talk. 

Enough  for  me  to  see  him  come  striding  across 
the  links;  to  watch  him  walk  into  my  mother's 
room;  to  see  a  certain  look  come  into  his  eyes. 
It  came  so  seldom  that  sometimes  I  told  myself 
I  must  have  dreamed  it. 

Then  it  would  come  again. 

He  made  my  mother  almost  well.  But  when 
he  went  back  to  London  he  left  a  great  misery  be- 
hind him. 

No  one  knew,  and  I  hoped  that  in  time  I  should 
get  over  it.  At  least  I  pretended  that  was  what  I 
hoped.  I  would  rather  have  had  that  pain  of 
longing  than  all  the  pleasure  any  other  soul  could 
give. 

***** 

The  following  year  my  mother  was  wonderfully 
well,  and  so  cheerful  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  worry 
her  with  questions. 

59 


60  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

We  saw  more  of  the  Helmstones  than  ever  be- 
fore. My  mother  even  went  to  them  once  or 
twice.  A  few  days  before  that  first  visit  of  Eric 
Annan's  had  ended,  Lady  Helmstone  and  the  two 
unmarried  daughters  came  home  from  touring 
round  the  world  in  their  cousin's  yacht.  Lady 
Barbara  was  the  plain  daughter.  She  was  twenty- 
two  and  wrote  poetry,  we  heard.  But  we  thought 
the  youngest  of  the  family  much  the  cleverest. 
Hermione  was  striking  to  look  at,  and  the  fact 
that  she  laughed  at  Barbara,  and  at  pretty  well 
everyone  else,  made  her  seem  very  superior. 
Also,  she  had  an  air. 

She  made  a  deep  impression  on  Bettina.  I,  too, 
found  her  wonderful.  But  my  mother  said  she 
was  crude.  We  thought  that  was  only  because, 
in  spite  of  "  being  who  she  was,"  Hermione  Helm- 
stone  put  pink  stuff  on  her  lips  and  darkened  the 
under  lid  of  her  green  eyes.  Just  a  little,  you 
understand.  Enough  to  give  her  a  look  of  ex- 
traordinary brilliancy.  She  took  a  great  fancy  to 
Bettina.  In  spite  of  Bettina's  being  so  young 
Hermione  used  to  tell  her  about  her  love  affairs. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  great  many.  But  one 
was  serious.  She  was  as  good  as  engaged,  she 


ERIC  61 

said,  to  Guy  Whitby-Dawson.  He  was  in  the 
Guards. 

We  were  all  agog.  When  was  she  going  to  be 
married? 

She  didn't  know.  It  was  dreadfully  expensive 
being  in  the  Guards. 

Being  a  peer  seemed  to  be  very  expensive,  too. 
Hermione's  father  had  so  many  places  to  keep  up, 
and  so  many  daughters,  he  couldn't  afford  to  give 
Hermione  more  than  "  the  merest  pittance." 
When  we  heard  what  it  was,  we  thought  it 
very  grand  to  call  such  a  provision  a  mere  pit- 
tance. 

I  wished  we  three  had  a  pittance. 

For  those  two  to  try  to  live  on  it  would  be  mad- 
ness, Hermione  said.  So  she  and  Guy  would 
have  to  wait.  Perhaps  some  of  Guy's  relations 
would  die.  Then  he  would  have  plenty. 

Meanwhile,  in  spite  of  being  as  good  as  en- 
gaged, Hermione  flirted  a  good  deal  with  her 
cousin,  Eddie  Monmouth,  and  with  the  various 
other  young  men  who  came  to  the  week-end 
parties  and  for  the  hunting.  Bettina  and  I  were 
often  rather  sorry  for  Guy,  until  the  day  when 
Hermione  brought  over  some  of  his  photographs 


62  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

for  us  to  look  at.     We  did  not  admire  him  at  all. 

But  we  never  told  Hermione. 

As  for  me,  though  I  tried  to  take  an  interest, 
I  was  never  really  thinking  about  any  of  the  things 
that  were  going  on  about  me.  And  I  was  always 
thinking  of  the  same  thing.  Day  and  night,  the 
same  thing. 

If  my  mother  sent  me  into  the  garden  to  see 
whether  the  autumn  crocuses  were  up — all  I  could 
see  was  his  face.  It  came  up  everywhere  I  looked. 
I  grew  impatient  of  the  companionship  I  had  most 
loved.  I  was  thankful  when  Hermione  had 
carried  off  my  sister  for  the  afternoon.  I  felt 
Lord  Helmstone  had  done  me  a  personal  kindness 
when  he  dropped  in,  on  the  way  to  or  from  the 
golf  links,  to  talk  to  my  mother.  I  would  slip 
away  just  for  ten  minutes  to  think  about  "  him  " 
in  peace.  When  I  went  in  I  would  find  I  had 
been  gone  for  hours. 

The  old  laws  of  Time  and  Space  seemed  all  at 
sixes  and  sevens.  The  old  devotions  paled. 

Mercifully,  nobody  knew. 


I  looked  for  him  all  the  next  spring.     In  the 


ERIC  63 

summer  I  said  to  myself,  I  shall  never  see  him 
again. 

Then  a  day  in  September  when  he  came. 
Came  not  only  to  Big  Klaus's  and  the  Links, 
He  came  to  Duncombe  the  very  first  evening,  to 
ask  about  my  mother. 

I  heard  his  voice  at  the  door.  It  seemed  to 
come  up  from  the  roots  of  the  world  to  knock 
against  my  heart.  I  stood  by  the  banisters  out 
of  sight  and  listened,  while  I  held  the  banisters 
hard. 

No,  he  wouldn't  come  in  now.  He  would  come 
to-morrow. 

I  flew  to  the  window  in  the  morning-room,  and 
looked  out. 

I  had  not  dreamed  him.     He  was  true. 
***** 

The  next  day  brought  him. 

I  had  all  those  hours  to  get  myself  in  hand.  I 
was  quite  quiet.  The  others  seemed  gladder  to 
see  him  than  I. 

He  was  pleased  at  finding  my  mother  so  well. 
The  crowning  proof  of  her  being  stronger  was  her 
doing  a  quite  unprecedented  thing.  She  invited 
Mr.  Annan  to  come  and  have  tea  at  Duncombe, 


64  MY  LITTLE    SISTER 

instead  of  tramping  all  that  distance  back  to  the 
Farm.  Big  Klaus's  tea  she  was  sure  was  worse 
even  than  the  Club  House  brew. 

The  result  was  that  he  fell  into  the  habit  of 
playing  another  round  after  tea,  which  my  mother 
said  was  good  for  him.  She  agreed  with  Lord 
Helmstone  that  Mr.  Annan  should  not  work  when 
he  had  come  away  for  a  holiday.  The  Helm- 
stones  were  for  ever  asking  him  to  lunch  and  dine. 
But  he  always  said  "  that  sort  of  thing  "  took  up 
too  much  time.  So  we  felt  flattered  when,  instead 
of  playing  the  other  round,  he  would  sit  there  in 
the  garden,  after  tea,  smoking  a  pipe  and  talking 
to  us. 

Bettina  said  our  home-made  cakes  and  delicious 
Duncombe  tea  were  quite  wasted  on  him.  I  was 
secretly  indignant  at  the  charge.  But  Bettina 
made  him  confess  he  could  not  tell  Indian  from 
China. 

"  Very  well  then,"  I  said,  "  it  proves  he  doesn't 
come  only  for  tea,"  and  upon  that  a  fire  seemed 
to  play  all  round  my  body,  scorching  me.  But  no 
one  noticed. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  him  again — to  verify 
all  those  things  I  had  been  thinking  about  him  for 


ERIC  65 

the  year  and  four  months  since  he  went  away. 

But  if  I  were  told,  even  now,  to  describe  Eric 
Annan,  I  would  say  at  once  that  he  was  a  person 
whose  special  quality  escaped  from  any  net  of 
words  that  sought  to  catch  it.  If,  at  the  time  I 
speak  of,  I  had  been  compelled  to  make  the 
attempt,  I  should  have  taken  refuge  in  such  com- 
monplaces as:  strongly-built;  colouring,  between 
dark  and  fair;  a  wholesome  kind  of  mouth,  with 
good  teeth;  brown  eyes,  not  large,  with  reddish 
flecks  in  the  iris.  And  I  might  have  added  one 
thing  more  uncommon.  That  gift  of  his  for  say- 
ing nothing  at  all  without  embarrassment. 

I  thought  of  him  as  a  person  standing  alone.  I 
could  not  imagine  him  in  the  usual  relationships. 
The  others  must  have  felt  like  that  about  him,  too, 
for  I  remember  they  were  surprised  when  Lord 
Helmstone  told  us  that  Eric  Annan  was  one  of  the 
large  family  of  an  impoverished  Scots  laird.  Bet- 
tina  said  to  him  the  next  day:  "  I  don't  suppose 
you  have  any  sisters." 

He  looked  surprised,  and  I  expected  him  to  re- 
pudiate such  trifles.  But  he  said :  "  Yes.  Three," 
in  a  tone  that  dismissed  them. 

But  the  confession  seemed  to  have  brought  him 


66  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

nearer,  to  make  him  more  human.  He  had  been 
a  little  boy,  then,  playing  with  little  girls.  He 
had  grown  up,  not  only  with  students  and  pro- 
fessors, but  with  sisters.  Oh,  happy  sisters !  how 
they  must  adore  him!  I  asked  him  to  tell  us 
about  them:  were  the  sisters  like  him?  No. 
What  were  they  like? 

"  Oh "  he  looked  vague.  Then  he  pre- 
sented a  testimonial.  They  were  "  all  right." 

The  proof:  two  of  them  were  married.  And 
the  third?  Oh,  the  third  was  only  twenty.  I 
felt  a  special  interest  in  that  one.  But  all  we 
could  learn  was  that  she  was  engaged.  So  she 
was  probably  "  all  right,"  too. 

My  mother  was  the  best  at  making  him  talk. 
She  discovered  that  he  was  "  like  so  many  of  the 
silent-seeming  people,"  fluent  enough  when  he 
liked.  Though  he  never  was  fluent  about  his 
sisters,  when  he  came  to  know  us  better,  he  told 
my  mother  about  his  elder  brother,  struggling  still 
to  keep  up  the  property — a  losing  battle.  And 
a  second  brother,  not  very  clever,  intended  for 
the  navy.  He  hadn't  got  on.  He  left  the  navy 
and  had  some  small  post  in  the  Customs.  The 
third  brother  was  "  trying  to  grow  tea  in  Ceylon." 


ERIC  67 

Bettina  hoped  the  third  brother  was  more  in- 
telligent about  tea  than  our  friend.  Eric  was  the 
fourth  son.  To  get  a  scientific  education,  on  any 
terms,  had  been  a  struggle.  He  had  to  arrive  at 
it  obliquely,  by  way  of  studying  medicine.  Pure 
science  didn't  pay.  But  science  was  the  one  thing 
on  earth  worth  a  man's  giving  his  life  to. 

I  see  him  sitting  in  the  level  light  on  Duncombe 
lawn,  looking  up  in  that  sudden  way  of  his,  and 
narrowing  his  eyes  at  the  sunset,  bringing  out  the 
word  research  with  a  tenacity  of  insistence  on  the 
"  r  "  which  must  make  even  a  Natural  Law  feel 
the  hopelessness  of  hiding  any  longer. 

That  preliminary  to  setting  aside  his  earlier 
reserve — a  forefinger  sweeping  upward  and  out- 
ward through  the  red-brown  thatch  on  his  upper 
lip — and  then  telling  my  mother  about  those  hours 
of  fathoms-deep  absorption;  of  the  ray  of  light 
that,  from  time  to  time,  would  pierce  the  darkness. 
He  told  her,  with  something  very  like  emotion,  of 
the  great,  still  gladness  that  came  out  of  conquest 
of  the  smallest  corner  of  the  Hidden  Field — that 
vast  Hinterland  as  yet  untrodden. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    BUNGALOW 

MY  mother  said  this  was  the  New  Consecration. 
He  is  the  stuff  of  the  devot,  she  said.  In  another 
age  he  would  have  been  a  great  ascetic,  or  a  saint. 

I  was  thankful  the  temptations,  in  these  direc- 
tions, were  slight  for  people  of  our  time.  I  liked 
better  to  think  of  him  in  one  of  his  boyish  moods, 
helping  us  to  re-stock  our  aquarium. 

Hermione  Helmstone's  inclination  to  mock  be- 
hind his  back,  to  imitate  little  stiffnesses  and  what 
she  called  his  "  Scotticisms,"  even  Lady  Barbara's 
unblushing  Schwarmerei,  was  less  a  trial  to  me 
than  the  talk  about  saints  and  ascetics. 

The  Helmstone  girls  fell  into  the  bad  habit  of 
dropping  in  to  share  our  tea  and  our  visitor. 

Hermione  pretended  that  she  came  solely  to 
keep  Barbara  in  countenance. 

But  Hermione  on  these  occasions  did  most  of 
the  talking. 

She  didn't  care  what  she  said.  "  How  long," 
she  demanded,  "are  you  going  to  stay?" — a 
heart-thumping  question  which  none  of  us  had 
ventured  to  put. 

68 


THE   BUNGALOW  69 

"  Three  weeks." 

"  A  beggarly  little  while,"  she  said,  exchanging 
looks  with  her  confederate.  Then  her  malicious 
sympathy  at  his  having  to  spend  so  much  of  his 
life  in  sick  rooms  and  hospitals,  "  looking  at 
horrors." 

He  said,  somewhat  shortly,  that  he  spent  most 
of  his  life  nowadays — thank  God! — in  a  labora- 
tory. 

Which  was  scarcely  polite. 

"Ouf!"  Hermione  sniffed,  "I  know!  Place 
full  of  bottles  and  bad  smells." 

He  smiled  at  that,  and  took  it  up  with  spirit. 

"  No  room  in  your  house  so  clean,"  he  said. 
"  And  no  place  anywhere  half  so  interesting."  A 
laboratory  was  full  of  mystery;  yes,  and  of 
romance — oh,  naturally,  not  her  kind. 

What  did  he  know  about  "her  kind"?  Her- 
mione demanded. 

Perhaps  he  knew  more  than  we  suspected.  For, 
just  as  though  he  guessed  that  Hermione's  name 
for  him  was  "  Scotch  Granite,"  and  that  she 
lamented  Barbara's  always  falling  in  love  with 
such  unromantic  people,  he  scoffed  at  Hermione's 
conception  of  romance.  "  An  ideal  worthy  of  the 
servants'  hall.  A  marble  terrace  by  moon- 


70  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

light.  ...  No  ?  Well,  then,  the  supper-room  at 
the  Carlton — Paris  frocks,  diamonds,  a  band  bang- 
ing away;  and  a  thousand-pound  motor-car  wait- 
ing to  whirl  the  happy  pair  away  to  bliss  of  the 
most  expensive  brand." 

They  went  on  to  quarrel  about  novels.  Her- 
mione  hated  the  gloomy  kind.  For  Eric's  benefit 
she  added,  "  And  the  scientific  kind." 

"Exactly!"  It  was  for  her  sort  of  "taste" 
that  ample  provision  was  made  in  the  feuilleton  of 
a  certain  paper. 

Hermione  was  not  a  bit  dashed.  "  You  may 
look  for  romance  in  bottles  if  you  like.  For  my 
part  .  .  ."  she  stuck  out  her  chin. 

"  Well,  oblige  the  company  by  telling  us  what 
you  look  for  in  a  story?  " 

"Orange  blossoms,"  says  she  promptly;  "not 
little  bits  of  brain." 

He  laughed  with  the  rest  of  us  at  that,  and  he 
knocked  the  ash  out  of  his  pipe  against  the  arm 
of  the  garden  chair.  Lord  Helmstone,  he  said, 
would  be  waiting  for  his  foursome. 

***** 

A  day  or  two  after,  Hermione  accused  him  to 
his  face  of  "  story-telling." 


THE   BUNGALOW  71 

"  You  said  you  were  only  going  to  stay  three 
weeks." 

To  our  astonishment  he  answered :  "  I  don't 
think  I  said  *  only '  three  weeks.  I  said  three 
weeks.  Three  weeks  certainly." 

" — — and  all  the  while  arranging  to  settle  down 
and  live  here." 

I  looked  from  Eric,  slightly  annoyed,  to  Her- 
mione,  mocking,  and  to  Lady  Barbara,  rolling 
large  pale  eyes  and  smiling  self-consciously. 

"  What  makes  you  think  I'm  going  to  settle 
down?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Well,  isn't  that  the  intention  of  most  people 
who  put  up  a  cottage  in  the  country?  " 

"  Oh !  you  mean  my  penny  bungalow."  He 
picked  up  his  golf  clubs.  "  Nobody  in  this  coun- 
try '  settles  down  '  in  a  bungalow,"  he  said. 

As  though  she  had  some  private  understanding 
of  the  matter,  Lady  Barbara  seemed  to  speak  for 

him.  " just  to  live  in  for  a  while,"  she  said 

quite  gently. 

"  Not  to  live  in  at  all."  Eric  threw  the  strap 
of  the  canvas  golf-bag  over  his  shoulder,  and 
made  for  the  front-door. 

"What  do  you  want  a  bungalow  for,  then?" 


72  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Hermione's  teasing  voice  followed  after  him. 

" mere    harmless    eccentricity."      He    was 

"  like  that,"  he  said.  He  turned  round  at  Her- 
mione's laugh,  and  I  saw  him  looking  at  the  ex- 
pression on  Lady  Barbara's  face.  Very  gentle 
and  happy;  almost  pretty.  And  I  had  never 
thought  Lady  Barbara  the  least  pretty  before. 

Eric,  too,  seemed  to  be  struck.  "  I  find  I've 
got  to  have  a  place  to  put  things,"  he  said  more 
seriously,  and  then  he  went  on  out.  "  Must  have 
some  place  to  keep  one's  traps,"  he  called  back. 

Lady  Barbara  stood  leaning  against  the  door 
and  looking  out  at  the  retreating  figure,  still  with 
that  expression  that  made  the  plain  face  almost 
beautiful. 

I  felt  that  Eric  had  come  lamely  out  of  the 
encounter.  What  did  it  all  mean?  For  he  had 
said  nothing  whatever  to  us  (who  thought  our- 
selves his  special  friends)  about  this  curious  proj- 
ect of  putting  up  a  bungalow. 

***** 

A  hideous  little  ready-made  house,  with  a  roof 
of  corrugated  iron,  painted  arsenic  green,  it  came 
down  from  London  in  sections,  and  was  set  up  in 
a  field  adjoining  Big  Klaus's  orchard. 


THE    BUNGALOW  73 

The  field  belonged  to  Lord  Helmstone. 

Eric  continued  to  eat  and  to  sleep  at  Big 
Klaus' s,  but  he  used  to  go  over  to  the  Bungalow 
and  shut  himself  up  to  work. 

As  the  days  went  on,  and  he  showed  no  sign  of 
increased  intimacy  with  the  Helmstones  I  clutched 
at  the  idea  that  perhaps  he  had  found  he  couldn't 
work  very  well  in  the  midst  of  farmyard  noises. 
He  had  spoken  of  the  melancholy  moo-ing  of 
cows  waiting  for  meadow-bars  to  be  let  down;  of 
the  baa-ing  and  grunting  and  the  eternal  barking 
that  went  on.  And  those  noises — which  he  was, 
strangely,  still  more  sensitive  to — produced  by 
Big  Klaus's  cocks  and  hens  underneath  Eric's  win- 
dow; and  by  the  ducks  and  geese  hissing  and 
clacking  on  the  pond  between  the  house  and  the 
stables.  I  was  not  likely  to  forget  how  he  had 
mocked  at  "  country  quiet "  or  the  samples  he 
gave  us  of  the  academic  calm  that  reigned  at  Big 
Klaus's.  I  think  I  never  heard  my  mother  laugh 
so  much  as  on  that  first  day  he  "  did  "  the  peace- 
ful country  life  for  us — Eric  rather  out  of  temper, 
presenting  his  grievance  with  great  spirit: 

" wretched  man  sits  up  addling  his  brains 

till  two  in  the  morning.  At  four,  this  kind  of 


74  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

thing "     In  a  quiet,  meditative  way  he  would 

begin  clucking.  Then  quacking,  almost  sleepily 
at  first;  then  with  more  and  more  fervour  till  he 
would  leave  the  ducks  and  soar  away  on  the 
ecstasy  of  a  loud,  exuberant  crow.  All  this  not 
the  least  in  the  sketchy,  impressionist  way  that 
most  people  who  try  will  imitate  those  humble 
noises,  but  with  a  precision  and  vigour  that  first 
startled  you,  and  then  made  you  feel  that  you  were 
being  given,  not  only  an  absolutely  faithful  repro- 
duction of  the  sound  those  creatures  make,  but  in 
the  oddest  way  given  their  point  of  view  as  well. 
We  laughed  the  more,  I  think,  because  the  comedy 
seemed  to  come  out  of  the  revelation  of  the  im- 
mense seriousness  of  the  animals.  Eric's  com- 
mentary seemed  so  fair.  It  seemed  to  admit  that 
the  importance  to  ducks  and  cocks  and  hens  of 
their  goings  on  was  at  least  as  great  as  the  im- 
portance of  peace  and  quiet  to  him.  With  an  air 
of  doing  it  against  the  grain,  he  gave  you  (with 
a  rueful  kind  of  honesty)  the  duck's  sentiments 
in  a  series  of  depressed  little  quacks  that  hardly 
needed  the  translation:  "  '  Been  all  over  this  re- 
pulsive pond;  turned  myself  and  all  my  family 
upside  down  for  hours.  Nothing!'"  Then 


THE   BUNGALOW  75 

indignant  quacks,  and:  "  'Silly  new  servant  can't 
tell  time.  Past  five  o'clock,  and  no  sharps ! '  " 
Then  a  single  jubilant  "'Quack!  There  she 

is '  "  and  a  rising  chorus,  till  anyone  not  in 

the  room  would  be  ready  to  swear  we  kept  as 
many  ducks  as  Big  Klaus.  A  moment's  silence, 
and  in  his  own  person  Eric  would  say  with  a  sigh: 
"  Now,  perhaps,  I  can  tackle  that  German  re- 
view." "'Buck!  Buck!  Buck! '"—or  rather  a 
series  of  sounds  that  defies  the  alphabet.  Then 
the  interruption:  "  '  My-wife's-laid-an-egg! '  "  and 
the  shrill  rapture  of  a  loud  crow  of  great  au- 
thority. 

The  Bungalow  was  out  of  earshot  of  all  that. 
We  heard  orders  were  given  that  no  letters  or 
telegrams  were  ever  to  be  taken  to  the  Bungalow. 
When  Eric  was  there,  "  no  matter  what  hap- 
pened," nobody  was  to  disturb  him. 

And  when  he  wasn't  there  the  Bungalow  was 
shut  and  locked. 

I  think  I  have  said  that  Hermione  was  the 
most  daring  girl  imaginable. 

She  went  one  day  ("Well,  doesn't  the  field  be- 
long to  us?  ")  and  looked  in  at  first  one  window 
and  then  another.  She  said  there  was  nothing 


76  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

but  a  stove  and  packing-cases  in  the  room  she 
could  see  into.  And  she  brought  back  a  bewilder- 
ing account  of  what  had  been  done  to  the  windows 
of  the  other  room.  There  were  no  curtains  and 
no  blinds,  but  thick  brown  paper  had  been  pasted 
over  the  glass  of  each  lower  sash.  You  could  no 
more  see  in  than  you  could  see  through  the  wall. 

The  top  sashes  were  down,  and  Hermione 
naturally  thought  he  must  be  there.  So  she  called 
"  Mr.  Annan !  "  quite  loud.  But  he  wasn't  there 
after  all,  she  said. 

Of  course,  the  next  time  she  met  him  on  the 
links  she  began  to  tease  him  about  papering  up 
his  windows.  "And  how  can  you  see?" 

"  Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  I  don't  believe  you  read  all  the 
time.  Nobody  could  read  the  whole  day  and  half 
the  night." 

No,  he  didn't  read  all  the  time. 

"What  do  you  do  then?  " 

Ah,  there  was  no  telling. 

And  that  was  true.  There  was  no  getting  Eric 
to  tell  you  anything  he  didn't  want  to. 

Hermione  announced  that  she  had  been  to  call. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  heard  you  call." 


THE    BUNGALOW  77 

She  stared. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  were  in  there  all 
the  time?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  there,"  he  said,  going  on  with  his 
putting  practice  quite  at  his  ease. 

Hermione  was  speechless  for  a  moment,  and 
that  was  the  only  time  in  my  life  I  ever  saw 
Hermione  blush. 

"  What  a  monster  you  were  not  to  come  out 
when  you  heard  me !  " 

"  Sorry,  but  I  was  too  busy,"  he  said.  "  I  al- 
ways am  busy  when  I'm  at  the  Bungalow." 

She  was  still  rather  red,  but  laughing,  too.  "  I 
suppose,  then,  you  heard  me  try  the  door?  "  (She 
hadn't  told  us  she  had  gone  as  far  as  that.) 

"  Yes,  I  heard  you  try  the  door." 

"  Well,  you  are  an  extraordinary  being — shut- 
ting yourself  up  with  brown  paper  pasted  over  the 
windows " 

" only  the  lower  half,  and  none  at  all  over 

the  skylight." 

"  Sitting  there  behind  brown  paper,  with  the 
door  locked !  " 

He  laughed.  "  You  see  how  necessary  my 
precautions  are." 


78  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  I  believe  you  do  something  in  there  you're 
ashamed  of." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  very  proud  of  what  I  do.  Not 
yet." 

She  clutched  Barbara's  arm.  "  Babs,"  she  said 
in  a  loud  whisper,  "  he  makes  bombs." 

"Sh!  not  so  loud,  please."  Eric  looked 
solemnly  across  the  links  to  where  Eddie  Mon- 
mouth  was  giving  Bettina  her  first  lesson  in  hit- 
ting off. 

"  No,  it  isn't  bombs,"  Hermione  said,  after  a 
moment.  "  You  make  counterfeit  money." 

"  If  ever  I  make  any  money,"  Eric  agreed,  "  it 
will  have  to  be  counterfeit." 


One  day,  with  Lady  Barbara  following  anxious 
in  her  wake,  Hermione  came  flying  in  to  tell  us 
she  was  hot  on  the  trace  of  Eric  Annan's  secret. 
He  was  one  of  those  horrible  vivisectionists !  The 
Bungalow  was  a  torture  chamber.  She  had  gone 
to  the  station  to  meet  someone,  and  there  on  the 
platform,  addressed  "  E.  Annan,  Esq.,"  was  a 
crate  full  of  creatures — poor  little  darling  guinea- 
pigs. 


THE   BUNGALOW  79 

She  taxed  him  with  the  guinea-pigs  the  moment 
he  appeared. 

"  No  wonder  you  paste  thick  brown  paper  over 
your  windows.  What  do  you  do  with  all  those 
poor  darling  guinea-pigs?  " 

He  answered  by  asking  her  what  she  did  with 
all  her  Chow  dogs.  I  think  he  probably  knew 
that  Hermione  bred  these  dogs.  They  took  prizes 
at  shows,  and  Hermione  did  a  thriving  trade  in 
selling  Chows  to  her  friends,  for  sums  that  seemed 
to  us  extortionate.  She  bought  jewellery  with 
some  of  the  proceeds,  the  rest  she  put  in  the 
bank. 

But  there  was  truth  as  well  as  evasion  in  the 
answer  she  gave  Eric :  "  You  know  perfectly  well 
the  Chows  are  pets." 

"  Exactly;  and  what  a  wasted  youth  yours  must 
have  been  if  you  never  heard  of  keeping  guinea- 
pigs." 

"  '  Keeping  them  ' — I  used  to  have  them  to 
play  with;  but  you  know  quite  well  you  don't 
mean  to  '  keep  '  them." 

"  Not  for  ever.  Very  clever  of  you  if  you  kept 
yours  for  ever." 

Of  course  she  hadn't  been  able  to  keep  them 


8o  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

beyond  their  natural  span.  "  But  I  never  did  any- 
thing horrible  to  them." 

Then  Lady  Barbara,  whose  long  upper  lip 
seemed  to  have  grown  longer  under  the  tension, 
behaved  a  little  treacherously  to  her  sister.  In 
her  anxiety  to  excuse  whatever  Eric  might  do,  or 
have  done,  Barbara  told,  in  her  halting  way,  some 
family  anecdotes  about  Hermione's  teasing  pets 
that  had  to  be  rescued  from  her  clutches,  and 
about  certain  birds  and  kittens,  and  a  monkey, 
which  had  one  and  all  succumbed. 

Hermione  tried  to  make  light  of  these  damag- 
ing revelations.  "  I  was  only  a  child." 

But  Lady  Barbara  gave  her  no  quarter.  It 
was  only  a  year  ago,  Babs  said,  that  Hermione 
had  a  horse  killed  under  her  in  Scotland.  "  You 
were  warned,  too.  You  just  rode  him  to  death. 
And  you  know  nobody  gives  the  dogs  such  whip- 
pings as  you  do." 

Hermione  ignored  the  horse.  To  do  her  jus- 
tice she  hated  to  be  reminded  of  that.  But  she 
defended  whipping  the  dogs.  If  they  weren't 
whipped  now  and  then,  they'd  get  out  of  hand. 

"  Why  should  they  be  *  in  hand '  ? "  Eric 
asked.  "  For  your  pleasure.  And  profit.  Not 


THE   BUNGALOW  81 

theirs."  He  spoke  of  the  severity  of  training  that 
broke  in  house-dogs,  and  I  had  my  first  glimpse  of 
the  difficulty  of  that  point  in  ethics,  the  relation  of 
human  beings  to  domestic  animals.  Hermione 
was  goaded  into  harking  back  to  the  guinea-pigs. 
Where  was  he  going  to  keep  them? 

In  hutches,  or  in  enclosures  in  the  field. 

Hermione's  eyes  sparkled.  She  was  glad  she 
had  counted  them,  she  said.  "  I  shall  just  notice 
how  long  you  keep  them." 

"  Oh,  when  I've  trained  them,  of  course  I  shall 
dispose  of  them." 

Hermione  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  then 
with  her  most  beguiling  air,  she  begged  him  not 
to  tease  her  any  more.  "  What  do  you  really 
want  them  for?  " 

.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  tell  you.  I  am  trying  an 
experiment.  I  expect,  after  all,  to  make  my  for- 
tune." 

Lady  Barbara  brightened  at  that.  Eric  went 
on  briskly:  "You  know  how  fast  guinea-pigs 
breed,  and  how  close  and  clean  they  crop  grass. 
Well,  here  is  a  great  natural  industry  waiting  to  be 
exploited.  My  guinea-pigs  are  going  to  give  an 
ocular  demonstration  to  my  farmer  friends.  My 


82  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

idea  is,  if  I  breed  guinea-pigs  and  let  them  out  in 
squads  at  so  much  a  day " 

"  But  if  you  let  them  out,"  said  Lady  Barbara, 
innocently,  "won't  they  run  away?  Ours  did." 

While  Hermione  was  laughing,  Eric  promised 
to  supply  movable  enclosures  with  his  Guinea-Pig 
Squads.  "  When  they've  eaten  one  area  clean, 
simply  move  the  hurdles  on.  You'll  see.  There'll 
soon  be  a  corner  in  guinea-pigs  and  a  slump  in 
lawn-mowers." 


CHAPTER  XI 

AWAKENING 

THERE  was  another  flutter  of  excitement  when 
Eric  had  his  Chief  Assistant  down  from  London. 
At  last,  somebody  else  was  allowed  to  go  into  the 
Bungalow. 

This  extension  of  hospitality  did  not  make  the 
Bungalow  seem  more  accessible,  but  distinctly  less 
so.  For  the  Chief  Assistant  lived  altogether  in 
the  Bungalow;  and  he  must  have  liked  living 
there,  for  he  never  wanted  to  take  walks,  or  do 
anything  but  just  stay  in  the  Bungalow.  He 
cooked  his  own  meals  and  washed  his  own  dishes. 
His  speech  was  like  the  rest  of  him,  and  the  most 
forthcoming  thing  he  ever  said,  according  to  Mrs. 
Klaus,  was  "  Good-morning."  So  not  even  Her- 
mione  could  pump  the  Invaluable  Bootle,  as  Eric 
called  him.  Hermione  called  him  the  Beetle,  be- 
cause he  was  a  round-shouldered,  brown  young 
man,  with  goggle  eyes  and  very  long  arms  and 
legs. 

Eric  defended  his  Assistant.  Hermione  once 
made  the  slip  of  saying  of  Mr.  Bootle  that  he 

83 


84  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

looked  like  the  kind  of  person  she  could  quite 
imagine  taking  a  pleasure  in  doing  innocent  an- 
imals to  death. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  said  Bootle  was  the  least  like 
you,"  Eric  said,  with  a  deadly  suavity.  She  saw 
he  had  not  forgotten  Babs'  stories,  but  he  seemed 
very  willing  not  to  pursue  the  subject. 

"  Everything  comes  to  an  end  sometime. 
Even  you,  Lady  Hermione — not  to  speak  of  the 
rest  of  us.  And  some  of  us  would  be  content 
enough  to  know  our  way  of  dying  had  left  the 
world  a  little  more  enlightened  than  we  found  it." 
***** 

I  minded  none  of  Hermione's  audacities  so 
much  as  her  speaking  of  Eric  as  "  Babs'  prop- 
erty." "  Poor  old  Babs,"  she  said  behind  her  sis- 
ter's back — the  best  the  Ugly  Duckling  of  the 
family  could  hope  for  was  a  parson,  or  some  pro- 
fessor-person. 

We  noticed  the  professor-person  never  stayed 
long  if  the  Helmstones  came. 

That  pleased  me  more  than  anything. 

He  was  quite  different  when  he  was  alone  with 
us  three.  He  was  patient,  and  took  some  pains, 
I  think,  to  make  us  understand  that  feeling  of  his 


AWAKENING  85 

about  Scientific  Research.  He  seemed  to  give  us 
the  key  of  the  wonderful  laboratory  in  London, 
where  he  "  spent  the  greater  part "  of  his  life.  I, 
too,  came  to  feel  it  must  be  the  most  fascinating 
place  in  the  world. 

Not  a  place  where  men  dealt  only  with  dead 
matter,  but  where  they  "  proved  the  spirit." 

A  friend  of  his  had  discovered  things  about 
X  rays;  a  knowledge,  Eric  said,  which  had  saved 
other  men  from  death ;  and  from  what  he  thought 
was  worse — long,  hopeless  suffering.  His  friend 
knew  that  he  was  running  a  risk  with  the  X  rays. 
He  saw  that  the  sores  on  his  hands  grew  worse; 
they  were  eating  in.  A  thumb  and  forefinger  had 
to  go,  then  the  entire  hand;  presently,  the  other 
hand.  His  eyes Then  he  died. 

Eric  didn't  seem  sorry,  though  his  voice  changed 
and  he  looked  away.  "  It  was  a  fine  way  to  die." 

He  said  the  self-discipline  imposed  by  the  pur- 
suit of  science  had  become  the  chief  hope  of  the 
world.  All  the  good  that  was  in  Militarism  had 
been  got  out  of  it.  It  was  a  spent  shell  now, 
half-burled  in  the  long  grass  of  a  fallow  field. 
Still,  it  was  no  wonder  the  majority  of  the  govern- 
ing class,  out  of  touch  with  the  real  work  of  the 


86  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

world — no  wonder  they  still  groped  after  the 
military  idea. 

They  saw  the  idle  on  the  one  hand  and  the  over- 
worked on  the  other,  wallowing  in  a  sickly  wash 
of  sentiment;  they  saw  the  dry  rot  in  Govern- 
ment. He  himself  had  small  patience  with 
politicians,  or  with  those  other  "  preachers  " — 
in  the  pulpits.  In  old  days,  when  the  churches 
were  in  touch  with  the  people,  a  man  might  feed 
his  flock  instead  of  merely  living  off  the  sheep  of 
his  pasture. 

But  the  people  who  fared  worst  at  Eric's  hands 
were  the  professional  politicians.  They  were 
"  bedevilled  "  by  the  most  intellect-deadening  of 
all  the  opiates,  the  Soothing  Syrup  of  Popularity. 
They  must  be  excused  from  doing  anything  else 
because,  forsooth,  they  did  such  a  lot  of  talking. 

We  discovered  an  unexpected  vein  of  humour 
in  him  the  day  he  travestied  a  certain  distinguished 
friend  of  Lord  Helmstone's.  We  were  shown 
the  Great  Man  on  the  hustings  at  a  Scottish  elec- 
tion, and  we  laughed  afresh  over  Eric's  fury  at 
his  own  evocation.  As  though  the  distinguished 
personage  were  actually  there,  perorating  on  Dun- 
combe  lawn,  Eric  brushed  up  his  moustache  and 


AWAKENING  87 

began  to  heckle  him.  What  had  he  done — ex- 
cept to  use  his  great  position  as  a  rostrum? 
What  had  been  done  by  all  the  members  of  the 
Lords  and  Commons  put  together  comparable  to 
the  achievements  of — for  instance,  Sanitary 
Science?  Ha,  Science!  No  phrase-making.  No 
flourish  of  fine  feelings.  Just  Sanitation — the 
force  that  had  done  more  in  fifty  years  to  improve 
the  condition  of  the  poor  than  all  the  philanthropy 
since  the  birth  of  Christ.  And  what  had  the 
Government  done  even  for  Science? 

Then  the  Personage,  magnificently  superior, 
setting  forth  the  folly,  the  sinful  waste  of  getting 
him  there,  and  not  listening  to  his  words  of  wis- 
dom. 

"  When  I  ope  my  mouth  let  no  dog  bark." 
No  such  ineptitudes  from  your  man  of  science. 
The  conditions  of  his  work — humbleness  of  spirit, 
a  patient  tracking  down  of  fact — these  kept  him 
sane;  kept  him  oriented.  Woe  to  him  if  he  fell 
into  fustian,  or  pretended  to  a  wisdom  he  could 
not  substantiate.  Your  man  of  science  had  to 
mind  his  eye  and  test  his  findings.  He  worked 
without  applause,  away  from  the  limelight.  He 
was  unwritten  about — unknown.  Even  when, 


88  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

after  years  of  toil,  your  man  of  science  came  out 
of  obscurity  with  some  great  gift  for  the  world  in 
his  hand,  no  one  except  other  men  of  science  was 
the  least  excited.  The  Daily  Mail  was  quite  un- 
moved. The  service  done  mankind  by  science  left 
the  general  public  in  the  state  of  Pet  Majorie's 
turkey : 

" she  was  more  than  usual  calm, 

She  did  not  give  a  single  damn." 

He  was  not  complaining. 
All  this  was  wholesome. 
"Science!" 

"No  high-piled  monuments  are  theirs  who  chose 
Her  great  inglorious  toil — no  flaming  death. 
To  them  was  sweet  the  poetry  of  prose, 

And  wisdom  gave  a  fragrance  to  their  breath. 

"Who  wrote  that?"  my  mother  asked. 
With  a  thrill  in  his  voice:  "  A  friend  of  mine !  " 
Eric  said,  "  A  friend  of  the  human  race." 
And  he  told  us  about  him. 
I  asked  to  have  the  verse  written  down. 
Life  seemed  a  splendid  thing  as  he  talked;  but 


AWAKENING  89 

still,  a  splendour  only  to  dazzle  me — not  to  light 
and  lead. 

When  he  was  there,  all  I  asked  was  to  sit  and 
listen,  and  now  and  then  to  steal  a  look. 

When  he  had  gone,  all  I  wanted  was  to  be  left 
alone,  that  I  might  go  over  all  he  had  said,  all  he 
had  looked,  and  endlessly  embroider  upon  that 
background. 

My  best  times,  in  his  absence,  were  those  safest 
from  interruption — the  long,  blessed  hours  while 
other  people  slept. 

To  lie  in  bed  conjuring  up  pictures  of  Eric, 
conversations  with  Eric,  had  come  to  be  my  idea 
not  only  of  happiness  but  of  luxury.  And,  as 
seems  the  way  of  all  indulgence  taken  in  secret 
and  without  restraint,  this  of  mine  enervated  me, 
made  me  less  fit  for  the  society  of  my  fellow- 
beings.  I  found  myself  irked  by  the  things  that 
before  had  pleased  me,  impatient  even  of  people  I 
loved.  I  was  like  the  secret  drinker,  ready  to 
sacrifice  anything  to  gratify  my  hidden  craving. 


All  this  time  Bettina  was  less  in  my  thoughts 
than  she  had  been  since  she  was  born — till  that 


90  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

afternoon  when  I  began  to  think  furiously  about 
her  again. 

Lord  Helmstone  had  come  with  Eddie  Mon- 
mouth  and  carried  Eric  off.  I  thought  they  had 
all  three  gone  to  the  links. 

I  went  indoors  and  wrote  a  note  for  my  mother. 
Then  I  escaped  to  the  garden.  I  will  go  down  in 
the  orchard,  I  said  to  myself,  and  wait  by  the 
gap  for  a  glimpse  of  Eric  playing  the  short  round. 
Along  the  south  wall  I  went  towards  the  land- 
mark of  the  big  apple-tree,  a  yard  or  so  this  side 
of  the  gap.  As  I  passed  the  ripening  wall-fruit, 
netted  to  protect  it  from  the  birds,  I  remembered 
my  mother  had  said  the  formal  espaliers  wore  the 
air  of  a  jealously-guarded  beauty  smiling  behind 
her  veil.  The  old  tree  by  the  gap  was  like  some 
peasant  "  Mother  of  Many,"  she  said,  rude  and 
generous,  bearing  on  her  gnarled  arms  a  bushel 
to  one  of  the  more  delicate  fruits  on  the  wall. 

All  the  way  down  to  the  end  of  the  orchard 
I  had  glimpses  through  the  lesser  trees  of  old 
"  Mother  of  Many,"  brave  and  smiling,  holding 
out  clusters  of  red-cheeked  apples  to  the  last  rays 
of  the  sun.  I  started,  and  stood  as  still  as  the 
apple-tree. 


AWAKENING  91 

Under  the  low  branches  two  figures.  My 
sister's  raised  face.  The  other  bending  down. 
He  kissed  her — Eddie  Monmouth. 

I  turned  and  fled  back  to  the  house. 

The  kiss  might  have  been  on  my  lips,  so  effec- 
tually it  wakened  me  out  of  my  dreaming. 

Bettina ! — old  enough  to  be  kissed  by  a  man ! 

So  she  was  the  first  to  be  engaged  .  .  .  my 
little  sister,  who  had  only  just  had  her  sixteenth 
birthday. 

***** 

I  tried  that  night  to  lead  up  to  a  confidence. 

But  I  had  neglected  Bettina  too  long,  appar- 
ently, for  her  to  want  to  tell  me  her  great  secret 
just  at  first. 

So  I  waited. 

Then  a  dreadful  day  when  Hermione  came  over 
to  say  that  she  was  going  up  to  London  for  Eddie 
Monmouth's  wedding. 

Yes,  most  unexpected.  All  in  hot  haste,  just 
before  his  sailing  for  India.  The  bride  a  girl 
they  had  never  heard  of. 

I  dared  not  look  at  Betty  for  some  minutes. 
When  at  last  I  mustered  up  courage  to  steal  a 
glance — not  a  cloud  on  Betty's  face. 


92  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Here  was  courage ! 

But  what  the  poor  child  must  be  going  through. 
— I  could  not  leave  her  to  bear  this  awful  thing 
alone.  .  .  . 

When  Hermione  had  gone  I  told  Bettina  that 
I  knew. 

She  looked  at  me  out  of  her  innocent  eyes,  and 
reddened  just  a  little.  Then  she  laughed:  "  Oh, 
I  don't  mind  like  that! "  she  said.  "  He  was 
very  nice.  But  I  think  I  prefer  Ranny  Dallas." 

At  first  I  was  sure  this  was  just  a  brave  attempt 
to  bear  her  suffering  alone. 

But  I  was  wrong. 

Bettina  did  like  Ranny  Dallas  best! 

He  liked  Bettina,  and  flirted  with  her. 

I  began  to  see  that  I  had  not  been  looking  after 
Bettina  properly. 

***** 

But  I  saw  more  than  that. 

I  saw  that  I,  too,  had  been  drifting.  I  had  no 
idea  where  any  of  us  were.  Where  was  my 
mother  in  her  lonely  struggle?  Where  was  Bet- 
tina, in  her  ignorance,  straying?  I,  myself?  I 
had  been  content  with  dreaming.  Or  with  wak- 
ing now  and  then  to  thrill  at  stories  about  other 


AWAKENING  93 

people's  courage,  insight,  indomitable  patience. 
Why  should  /  not  rouse  myself  and  nerve  myself? 
Why  should  not  I,  too,  scorn  delight  and  live- 
laborious  days? 

It  was  then  the  Great  Idea  came  to  me. 


CHAPTER  XII 

OUR  FIRST  BALL 

ERIC  stayed  nearly  eight  weeks  instead  of  three. 
Yet  I  let  him  go  away  without  a  word  about  the 
radical  change  that  had  come  over  a  life  out- 
wardly the  same. 

***** 

That  was  the  year  I  was  eighteen.  But  I  still 
did  lessons  with  my  mother — French  and  Ger- 
man, and  English  history.  I  asked  her  to  let  me 
leave  off  history,  and  allow  me  to  work  by  my- 
self a  little.  I  wanted  to  surprise  her,  by-and- 
by,  so  she  was  not  to  question  me. 

I  studied  a  great  deal  harder  than  she  knew. 
When  we  sat  down  to  breakfast  at  half-past  eight 
I  would  usually  have  three  hours  of  work  behind 
me.  Often  when  Bettina  and  I  were  both  sup- 
posed to  be  at  the  Helmstones,  I  had  stayed  be- 
hind in  the  copse  "  to  read."  This  would  be 
when  I  knew  Ranny  Dallas  was  not  at  the  Hall. 

I  still  thought  that,  like  all  the  other  young 
men  who  came  there,  he  was  attracted  by  Her- 
mione.  But  I  could  not  forget  that  Bettina  "  liked 

94 


OUR    FIRST   BALL  95 

him  best" — liked  him  more  than  the  man  she 
had  allowed  to  kiss  her,  and  who  had  not  cared 
for  her  at  all. 

I  did  my  best  to  make  Betty  see  that  even  if  a 
man  as  young  as  Ranny  Dallas  were  to  think  of 
marrying  at  present,  it  would  be  the  Hermione 
sort  of  person  he  would  think  of.  For  we  knew 
that  since  his  elder  brother's  death  a  great  deal 
was  expected  of  Ranny. 

All  that  I  could  get  out  of  Betty  just  then  was 
that  he  was  not  so  young  as  he  looked.  But  I 
heard,  presently,  that  he  had  told  her  he  was 
"  chucking  the  army."  His  father  was  growing 
feeble,  and  wanted  his  son  to  settle  down  and 
nurse  the  family  constituency.  I  remember  how 
annoyed  Betty  was  at  my  saying  that,  whether 
Ranny  was  old  enough  to  think  of  marrying  or 
not,  I  certainly  couldn't  imagine  such  a  boy  being 
a  Member  of  Parliament.  Betty  quoted  Her- 
mione. Hermione,  who  knew  much  more  about 
such  things  than  I  did,  had  said  she  was  sure  that 
Ranny  would  get  into  the  House  at  the  very  next 
by-election.  And  Hermione  had  clinched  this  by 
adding:  "Ranny  Dallas  always  gets  everything 
he  wants." 


96  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  made  up  my  mind  that  for  Betty's  sake  I 
must  keep  my  eyes  open.  All  that  I  had  seen  in 
him  so  far  was  a  fair,  rather  chubby  young  man, 
who  was  not  really  very  good-looking,  but  who 
somehow  made  the  impression  of  being  so — 
chiefly,  I  think,  because  he  looked  so  extraordi- 
narily clean.  And  he  had  that  smile  which  makes 
people  feel  that  the  world  must  be  a  nicer  place 
than  they  had  thought.  Then,  too,  there  was 
something  rather  nice  in  the  way  his  hair  simply 
would  curl  in  wet  weather,  for  all  the  plastering 
down.  His  round,  blunt-featured  face  was  clean- 
shaven; and  if  I  had  wanted  to  tease  Ranny,  I 
should  have  told  him  I  was  sure  he  hadn't  long 
"got  over"  dimples.  But  Betty  was  right;  he 
was  older  than  he  looked. 

I  tried  to  be  with  her  whenever  he  was  about. 
But  this  became  more  and  more  difficult.  For 
often  he  came  down  without  any  warning.  If 
they  couldn't  have  him  at  the  Hall,  he  would  put 
up  at  the  inn.  And  he  seemed  quite  as  content 
walking  those  two  miles  to  the  links,  or  clanking  up 
and  down  the  hilly  road  on  a  ramshackle  bicycle 
he  had  found  at  the  inn.  Our  jobbing  gardener 
was  overheard  to  say  that  he  wouldn't  be  seen  rid- 


OUR    FIRST    BALL  97 

ing  such  a  bicycle — "  no,  not  on  a  dark  night!  " 
Ranny,  as  we  knew,  had  two  motor-cars  of  his 
own,  and  was  very  particular  about  their  every 
detail.  But  he  said  all  that  the  much-abusec 
"  bike  "  needed  was  a  brake.  Even  without  a 
brake  it  was  "  a  lot  better,"  he  said,  "  than  having 
to  think  about  the  shover-chap." 

After  all,  whether  Ranny  was  nominally  at  the 
inn,  or  staying  with  the  Helmstones,  he  spent  most 
of  his  time  with  them — and,  for  all  I  could  do, 
he  spent  a  good  deal  of  the  time  with  Bettina. 

I  still  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  whether  he 
amused  himself  more  with  her  or  with  Hermione. 
But  there  was  no  doubt  in  Lord  Helmstone's 
mind.  He  used  to  chaff  Hermione  when  Ranny 
wasn't  there,  and  when  he  was  there  Ranny  got 
the  chaffing. 

;<  What!  you  here  again?  "  his  lordship  would 
say.  "  Why,  I  thought  you'd  only  just  gone." 
Then  he'd  ask,  with  a  business-like  briskness,  what 
he'd  come  for. 

;'  Why,  to  play  a  game  o'  golf  with  your  lord- 
ship." 

"  Can't  think  what  a  boy  of  your  age  is  doing 
with  golf."  Then  he  would  say  to  us :  "  Here's 


98  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

a  fella  usen't  to  care  a  doit  for  golf — and  now 
this  passion !  " 

When  Lord  Helmstone  said  that — which,  in 
the  way  of  facetious  persons  secure  from  criticism, 
he  did  a  great  many  times — a  colour  like  a  girl's 
would  sometimes  overspread  Ranny's  face,  in 
spite  of  the  implication  being  so  little  of  a  novelty. 
Then  Lord  Helmstone  would  call  attention  to 
Ranny's  being  "  very  sunburnt,"  and  he  would 
chuckle  and  rattle  his  keys.  "  You  ought  to  run 
away  and  play  cricket.  Eh ?  " 

"  In  this  weather?" 

"  Well,  go  deer-stalking,  then.  Or  play  polo. 
Something  more  suitable  to  your  years  than 
pottering  about  golf-links.  Something  vig- 
orous. Keep  down  superfluous  tissue.  Eh — 
what?" 

People  liked  teasing  Ranny.  He  took  it  so 
charmingly. 

When  I  admitted  that  much  to  Betty,  she  said 
he  did  take  chaffing  well,  but  she  sometimes 
thought  he  got  more  than  his  share.  Lord  Helm- 
stone,  she  said,  never  ventured  to  treat  Mr.  Annan 
in  that  way. 

I  said  that  was  quite   different,   and  we  very 


OUR    FIRST   BALL  99 

nearly  had  a  serious  quarrel.  When  I  saw  that 
Betty  really  couldn't  see  the  vast  difference  be- 
tween making  fun  of  that  boy  and  making  fun  of 
a  man  like  Eric  Annan,  I  began  to  feel  more 
anxious  than  ever  about  Betty. 

This  was  the  first  year  the  Helmstones  kept 
Christmas  in  the  South. 

They  filled  the  great  house  full  to  overflowing 
for  a  dance  on  New  Year's  Eve.  We  had  only 
our  white  muslin  summer  frocks  to  wear.  But  not 
even  Bettina  minded,  and  we  had  a  most  heavenly 
time.  Hermione  had  taught  us  the  new  dances. 
She  said  she  "  never  in  all  her  born  days  knew 
anybody  so  quick  as  Bettina  at  learning  a  new 
step." 

Even  I  danced  every  dance,  and  Bettina  had 
to  cut  some  of  hers  in  two.  There  were  several 
new  young  men  in  the  house-party.  Two  were 
brothers,  and  both  sailors.  The  oldest  one  danced 
better  than  any  man  we  had  ever  seen,  and  he 
would  have  liked  to  dance  with  Bettina  the  whole 
night  long.  It  was  our  first  ball,  and  Betty  was 
only  sixteen.  So  perhaps  it  was  not  very  strange 
that  the  music  and  the  motion  and  all  the  admira- 
tion went  to  Betty's  head.  For  she  did  behave 


ioo  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

rather  badly  to  Ranny.  When  she  had  danced 
three  times  with  the  oldest  sailor — Captain  Gerald 
Boyne — Ranny  took  her  into  a  corner  and  remon- 
strated. I  saw  he  looked  pretty  serious,  but  I 
didn't  know  till  she  and  I  were  undressing  in  our 
own  room  that  night,  or  rather  morning — I  didn't 
know  how  strongly  he  had  spoken. 

We  had  found  our  mother  waiting  for  us,  and 
we  were  both  a  little  remorseful  for  being  so  late 
when  we  saw  how  tired  she  looked.  "  But  you 
know  we  asked  you  if  we  might  stay  to  the  end." 
Then,  I  told  her  they  had  all  begged  us  to  wait 
for  one  or  two  more  dances  after  the  musicians 
went  away,  and  how  a  friend  of  Lady  Helmstone's 
played  waltzes  for  us. 

My  mother  thought  it  a  pity  to  keep  London 
hours  in  the  country.  We  were  to  get  to  bed  now 
as  quickly  as  possible,  and  tell  her  "  all  about  it 
m  the  morning." 

So  we  took  the  candle  and  went  away  to  our  own 
room.  It  suddenly  looked  different  to  me — this 
room  Bettina  and  I  had  shared  all  our  lives.  The 
ceiling  seemed  to  have  dropped  a  foot.  But  all 
the  same  it  looked  very  white  and  kind  in  the  dim 
light.  Bettina  ran  and  pulled  back  one  of  the 


OUR    FIRST    BALL  101 

dimity  curtains.  Yes,  the  moon  was  brighter 
than  ever!  Betty  threw  open  the  window  and 
leaned  out.  Oh,  what  a  pity  to  go  to  bed  when 
the  world  was  looking  like  this! 

We  had  had  a  green  Christmas,  and  the  wind 
that  blew  in  was  not  cold ;  but  I  thought  how  hor- 
rified my  mother  would  be  to  see  Betty  leaning  out 
of  a  window  in  January,  with  the  night-wind  blow- 
ing on  her  neck.  We  quarrelled  a  little,  very 
softly,  about  shutting  the  window.  Bettina  was 
still  flushed  and  a  good  deal  excited.  Rather 
anxious,  too,  about  what  had  happened  at  the  ball. 
But  she  defended  herself.  She  overdid  her  air  of 
justification — "  such  perfect  nonsense  Ranny' s 
making  all  that  fuss,  just  because  a  person  natu- 
rally likes  to  waltz  with  a  man  who  dances  so  di- 
vinely! " 

I  asked  what,  precisely,  Ranny  had  said. 

"  Oh,  he  said  he  had  hoped  I  would  care  to 
dance  with  him.  And,  of  course,  I  said  I  did. 
I  had  already  given  him  the  first  polka,  and  I  had 

promised  him "     She  broke  off.     Nobody  had 

ever  been  quite  so  reasonable  as  she,  or  so  unrea- 
sonable as  Ranny.  He  had  tried  to  prevent  her 
dancing  at  all  with  Captain  Boyne. 


102  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  But  you  had  already  danced  three  times  with 
Captain  Boyne,"  I  reminded  her. 

"  Well,  what  of  that?  "  she  demanded,  in  a  quite 
un-Betty-like  way.  And  instead  of  undressing  she 
followed  me  about  the  room,  her  cheeks  very 
bright  as  she  told  me  how  that  unreasonable  Ranny 
had  "  kept  saying  that  he  '  made  a  point  of  it.* 
Then  my  partner  for  the  mazurka  came,  and  I  saw 
Ranny  go  over  to  you.  What  did  he  say?  "  she 
asked,  so  eagerly  that  she  forgot  to  keep  her  voice 
down. 

My  mother  knocked  on  the  wall.  "  Go  to 
sleep,  children,"  she  called. 

We  both  answered  "  Yes,"  and  I  began  hur- 
riedly to  undo  Betty's  gown.  But  she  never 
stopped  twisting  her  head  round:  "  Go  on,  tell  me. 
What  did  he  say?  " 

I  told  her,  a  little  impatiently,  that  he  hadn't 
said  anything  in  particular — he  hadn't  tried  to 
make  himself  the  least  agreeable,  and  he  danced 
badly. 

"Danced  badly?"  said  Bettina,  as  though  it 
were  quite  a  new  idea.  "  I  think  that  must  have 
been  your  fault.  He  dances  quite  well  with 


OUR    FIRST    BALL  103 

"  Yes,"  I  admitted,  "  he  does  dance  best  with 
you." 

Then  she  told  of  the  part  Hermione  had  played. 
Nothing  escaped  Hermione,  and  as  soon  as  she 
got  wind  of  what  was  happening,  she  egged  Betty 
on.  Hermione  had  laughed  out,  in  the  most 
meaning  way,  when  she  saw  Ranny  coming  towards 
Betty  in  the  interval  with  "  blood  in  his  eye,"  as 
she  expressed  it.  She  whispered  to  Betty  that 
Ranny  was  far  too  used  to  having  his  own  way. 
"  *  But  you'll  see,  you'll  have  to  give  in,'  "  Her- 
mione said,  and  went  off  laughing  just  as  Ranny 
came  up. 

And  he  began  badly:  "  *  You've  told  Boyne  he 
can't  have  this  waltz?' 

Betty  said  "  No." 

"  '  Why  not?     Why  haven't  you  told  him?  '  " 

"  He  would  ask  for  a  reason." 

"  '  Very  well,  give  it.'  " 

"  '  I  don't  know  any  reason,'  "  Betty  said. 

'  The  reason  is  .  .  .'  Then  he  stopped,  and 
seemed  to  change  his  mind.  He  began  again: 
*  The  reason  is,  you  are  going  to  sit  out  with  me.' 
And  then,"  Betty  ended  nervously,  "  Gerald  Boyne 
came,  and — we  waltzed  that  time  too." 


io4  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  Yes,"  I  said  severely,  "  everybody  was  say- 
ing, '  Those  two  again !  '  And  I  didn't  see  you 
dance  with  Ranny  at  all  after  that." 

No;  but  it  wasn't  her  fault.  "  It  was  quite  un- 
derstood he  was  to  have  the  cotillion." 

"  Then  it  was  very  wrong  of  you  to  dance  the 
cotillion  with  Captain  Boyne.  It  was  making 
yourself  conspicuous." 

She  protested  again  that  it  wasn't  her  fault. 
"  I  kept  them  all  waiting  as  it  was.  You  saw  how 
I  kept  them  waiting  for  Ranny,  till  everyone  was 
furious.  And  as  he  didn't  come,  I  had  to  dance 
with  whoever  was  there." 

"  I  suppose  what  made  him  angry  was  my  going 
off  for  that  horrid  waltz  after  he  had  said  he 
1  made  a  point  of  it ' — I  wasn't  to  dance  again 
with  '  that  fellow.'  And  then,  what  do  you  think 
I  said?  "  Bettina  took  hold  of  my  arm,  so  I 
couldn't  go  on  braiding  my  hair.  "  I  said  he  was 
jealous  of  Captain  Boyne,  or  why  should  he  call 
him  '  that  fellow '  ?  Even  at  the  moment  I  felt 
how  horrid  that  was  of  me ;  for  it's  not  a  bit  like 
Ranny  to  be  jealous  in  a  horrid  way,  calling  people 
'  fellows.'  So  I  said:  *  If  the  Boynes  aren't  nice, 
why  are  they  here?'  And  Ranny  said:  'Oh, 


OUR    FIRST   BALL  105 

Gerald  Boyne's  people  are  all  right.  His  brother 
is  all  right.  But  I  shouldn't  want  you  to  dance 
with  Gerald  if  you  were  my  sister.  And  if  you 
were  my  wife,  I  should  forbid  it.'  ' 

"  '  But,'  I  said,  '  I'm  not  your  sister !  ' — Betty 
tossed  her  head,  laughing  softly — '  and  I'm  not 
your  wife ' ' 

I  asked  her  if  she  had  said  it  like  that? 

Yes,  she  had.  "  And  I  said,  too — I  said  it  was 
4  fortunate.'  '  Then  without  the  least  warning, 
poor  Betty  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  her  bed  and 
began  to  cry. 

I  put  my  arm  round  her.  And  she  pulled  her 
bare  shoulders  away.  "  You  needn't  think  I'm 
crying  about  Ranny,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  it's 
being  so  angry  makes  me  cry." 

44  You  are  crying  because  you  are  over-tired,"  I 
said,  and  I  began  to  take  off  her  shoes  and  stock- 
ings. 

44  I'm  not  crying  because  I'm  tired,  but  because  " 
— she  wiped  her  eyes  on  the  sleeve  of  her  night- 
gown— 4t  it's  a  disappointment  to  see  anyone  so 
silly  .  .  .  making  4  points '  of  such  things  as 
waltzes." 

When  she  was  ready  for  bed,  she  stood  medi- 


106  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

tating  a  moment.  And  then:  "  Ranny  has  never 
struck  me  as  one  of  the  horrid,  unforgiving  sort 
of  people.  Has  he  you?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  said,  and  I  made  her  get  into  bed. 
I  covered  her  up.  But  it  was  no  use;  she  threw 
back  the  eiderdown,  and  sat  bolt  upright. 

" asking  me  like  that,  at  a  ball,  if  I  liked 

Captain  Boyne  best — a  man  I'd  never  seen  before 
— don't  you  call  it  very  rude?  " 

"No;  only  a  little  foolish " 

Another  knock  on  the  communicating  door. 
"  If  you  children  keep  on  talking  I  shall  have  to 
come  in." 

We  promised  we  wouldn't  say  another  word. 
But  more  than  once  Betty  began:  "  Ranny " 

"Sh!"  I  said. 

The  quarrel  about  the  window  had  ended  in  our 
leaving  it  a  couple  of  inches  open,  and  the  cur- 
tains looped  back.  As  we  lay  there,  the  room 
grew  brighter;  so  bright  that  every  little  treasure 
on  the  long,  narrow  shelf  above  each  bed  could 
be  plainly  seen.  All  the  small  vases  and  pictures 
and  china  animals — all  the  odds  and  ends  we  had 
cherished  most  since  we  were  babies. 

When  Bettina  had  come  in  that  night,  the  first 


OUR    FIRST   BALL  107 

thing  she  did  was  to  clear  a  space  for  her  cotillion 
favours.  The  moonlight  showed  the  brilliant 
huddle  of  fan  and  bonbon-basket  tied  with  rose- 
colour,  and,  most  conspicuous  of  all,  the  silver 
horn  hung  with  parti-coloured  ribbons. 

When  we  had  lain  quiet  in  our  beds  for  ten 
minutes  or  so,  Bettina  pulled  out  a  pillow  from 
under  her  head,  and  propped  it  so  that  the  moon 
couldn't  shine  any  longer  on  the  be-ribboned  horn. 
And  neither  could  Betty's  eyes  rest  on  it  any  more. 
She  lay  still  for  some  time,  and  I  was  falling 
asleep,  when  I  heard  her  bed  creak.  She  had 
pulled  herself  half  out  of  the  covers,  and  was  lean- 
ing over  the  pillow-barrier.  She  took  the  horn 
and  the  other  favours,  one  by  one,  and  with  much 
gravity  thrust  them  under  the  bed. 

A  sigh  of  satisfaction  and  a  settling  down  again. 

I  turned  and  smiled  into  my  pillow.  It  was 
so  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  Bettina  used  to  do 
when  she  was  in  the  nursery — punishing  her  toys 
when  things  went  wrong. 

What  a  blessing,  I  said  to  myself,  that  I  was 
coming  to  like  Ranny  Dallas.  For,  quite  certainly, 
he  was  going  to  be  my  brother-in-law. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  CLOUD  AGAIN 

THE  very  next  day  Ranny  Dallas  went  away  to 
shoot  somewhere  in  the  North. 

Bettina  did  not  hide  from  me  how  unhappy 
she  was. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  write,"  I  said. 

"  He  isn't  the  sort  that  writes — not  even  when 
he's  friends  with  a  person."  Then,  with  a  rather 
miserable  laugh,  Betty  added:  "  He  says  he  can't 
spell." 

So  I  gathered  that  she  had  asked  him  to  try. 

And  I  gathered,  too,  that  Hermione  made  light 
of  the  disagreement  at  the  ball.  She  predicted 
that  he'd  be  wanting  to  come  back  in  a  week  or 
two,  and  Betty  would  find  he  had  forgotten  about 
the  Battle  of  the  Boyne. 

We  all  came  tacitly  to  agree  that  was  precisely 
what  would  happen — all,  that  is,  except  my  mother, 
who  knew  nothing  about  the  matter. 

It  was  a  somewhat  subdued  Bettina  who  began 
that  year;  but  I  don't  think  it  was  in  the  Bettina 
of  those  days  to  be  unhappy  long. 

108 


THE    CLOUD   AGAIN 

(Oh,  Bettina!  how  is  it  now?) 

I  don't  know  how  anyone  so  loved  and  cherished 
could  have  gone  on  being  actively  unhappy.  Be- 
sides, though  the  weeks  went  by  and  still  Ranny 
did  not  reappear,  there  was  a  family  reason  to 
account  for  that.  His  father  was  very  ill. 
Ranny's  place  was  at  home. 

Hermione  often  gave  us  news  of  him  that  came 
through  friends  they  had  in  common.  And  she 
spoke  as  though  any  week-end  that  found  his 
father  better,  Ranny  might  motor  down. 

So  we  waited. 

Bettina  was  a  great  deal  with  the  Helmstone 
girls  and  their  friends. 

As  for  me,  I  was  a  great  deal  with  my  books  in 
the  copse.  February,  that  year,  was  more  like 
April,  and  all  the  violets  and  primroses  rejoiced 
prematurely. 

I,  too. 

I  was  extraordinarily  happy.  For  I  was  sure  I 
was  finding  a  way  out  of  all  our  difficulties.  A 
glorious  way.  A  way  Eric  would  applaud  and 
love  me  for  finding — all  alone  like  this. 

I  had  a  recurring  struggle  with  myself  not  to 
write  and  tell  him.  When  I  had  been  "  good  " 


no  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

and  wanted  to  give  myself  a  treat,  I  allowed  my- 
self to  go  over  in  imagination  that  coming  scene  in 
which  he  should  be  told  the  Great  Secret. 
***** 

My  mother  sometimes  spoke  a  little  anxiously 
about  Bettina's  being  so  much  with  Hermione. 
She  surprised  me  one  day  by  asking  me  outright 
if  I  thought  the  increasing  intimacy  was  likely  to 
do  Bettina  harm. 

My  feeling  about  it  was  too  vague  to  produce. 
I  could  only  suggest  that  if  she  was  afraid  of  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  why  should  she  not  speak  to 
Betty? 

"  The  child  has  so  few  pleasures,"  was  the  an- 
swer, with  that  brooding  look  of  tenderness  which 
the  thought  of  Betty  often  brought  into  my 
mother's  face.  "  Does  she  tell  you  what  they 
talk  about?" 

"  Oh,  the  usual  things !  "  I  answered  discreetly. 
"  Clothes,  and  people  and  dogs." 

"  Oh,  as  for  dogs ! "  My  mother  dismissed 

the  Chows.  Bettina,  in  an  unguarded  moment, 
had  admitted  that  she  thought  she  could  care  for 
one  dog.  But  she  couldn't  possibly  care  for 
eighteen.  "What  people  do  they  discuss?" 


THE    CLOUD   AGAIN  in 

"  Oh,  pretty  much  everybody,  I  should  say." 

She  looked  at  me.  "  But  some  more  than 
others.  The  Boynes,  for  instance." 

When  I  said  I  didn't  think  so,  my  mother 
seemed  a  little  chilled,  as  though  she  might  be 
feeling  "  out  of  things." 

Her  face  troubled  me.  "  I  am  afraid,"  I  said, 
"  that  you  are  thinking  Betty  and  I  have  been 
leaving  you  a  good  deal  alone  of  late." 

"  Oh,"  she  answered  hastily,  "  I  was  not  think- 
ing about  myself." 

At  that,  of  course,  conscience  pricked  the  more. 
"  Anyhow,  /  have  been  away  too  much,"  I  con- 
fessed. "  And  there's  no  excuse  for  me.  For 
Betty  is  the  one  they  chiefly  want." 

She  saw  I  was  making  resolutions.  "  I  like  you 
two  to  be  together,"  she  said.  "  Bettina  needs 
you  more  than  I.  I  should  feel  much  less  easy  in 
my  mind  about  Bettina  if  you  weren't  there  to 
watch  over  her,  and  "  (she  added  significantly) 
"  to  tell  me  anything  I  ought  to  know." 

As  I  look  back,  I  pray  that  my  mother  did  not 
feel  we  were  growing  away  from  her.  But  I  can- 
not be  sure  some  fine  intuition  did  not  visit  her 
of  the  difficulty  of  confidence  on  our  part — of 


ii2  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

how  our  very  devotion  and  craving  for  her  good 
opinion  made  Betty,  for  instance,  shy  of  telling 
her  things  that  a  younger  sister  could  easily  tell 
to  one  near  her  own  age.  I  knew  my  mother's 
view  about  the  relations  that  should  exist  between 
mothers  and  daughters.  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
speak  to  Betty  about  it.  So  I  asked  her  one  night 
if  she  didn't  think  she  ought  to  "  let  her  know 
about  Ranny." 

"Heavens,  no!  She  is  the  last  person  I  could 
tell!" 

I  felt  for  my  mother  the  wound  of  that.  And 
why,  I  asked  Bettina,  did  she  feel  so? 

Almost  sulkily  she  said  that  if  I  wanted  our 
mother  told  things,  I  could  tell  her  about  myself. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  I  said. 
"  There's  nothing  to  hear  about  me." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  Bfetty  said;  "then  there's 
nothing  to  tell." 

And  the  sad  part  of  it  was  that,  after  that, 
Betty  began  to  be  reserved  with  me  too. 

I  was  so  afraid  of  the  effect  of  our  secretive- 
ness  on  my  mother  that  I  learned  how  to  interest 
her  in  people  neither  Betty  nor  I  were  the  least 
interested  in.  I  saved  up  stories  and  "  charac- 


THE    CLOUD   AGAIN  113 

teristics  "  to  tell.  The  very  success  of  these  small 
efforts  gave  me  secretly  a  sense  of  the  emptiness 
of  her  life.  To  have  nothing  to  think  about  but 
a  couple  of  girls ! — girls  who  were  thinking  all  the 
while  about  things  their  mother  didn't  know.  I 
could  have  cried  out  at  the  dreadfulness  of  such  a 
fate.  I  felt  it  uneasily  as  a  menace.  Could  she, 
when  she  was  in  her  teens,  have  felt  the  least  as 
I  did?  Oh,  impossible!  And  yet  .  .  . 

"  Tell  me  about  when  you  were  young,"  I  said; 
but  with  the  new  insistence,  now,  of  one  bent  on 
grasping  the  unexplained  things  in  another's  life, 
the  better  to  understand  the  unexplained  things 
in  her  own. 

I  could  not  make  much  of  the  few  bony  facts. 
Her  father  had  had  a  small  Government  post,  and 
she  had  told  us  before  that  when  she  was  three  she 
lost  her  mother.  The  only  new  fact  to  emerge 
was  that  she  had  not  been  happy  at  home.  She 
tried  to  make  out  the  reason  was  that  she  loved 
fields  and  gardens,  and  her  father's  pursuits  kept 
them  in  the  town.  But  try  as  I  might  I  couldn't 
see  the  life  she  led  there.  I  struggled  against  the 
sense  of  my  impotence  to  realise  her  under  any 
conditions  but  those  at  Buncombe.  Feeling  my- 


ii4  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

self  incredibly  bold,  I  reminded  her  of  old  say- 
ings about  confidence  between  mothers  and 
daughters.  "  I  am  always  telling  you  things  about 
us.  You  know  exactly,"  I  said  (unconscious  at 
the  moment  of  the  lie) — "  you  know  all  that  hap- 
pens to  us,  and  what  life  looks  like  at  every  turn. 
We  know  so  little  about  you  except  where  the 
house  was  you  lived  in,  and  that  it  was  dingy  and 
big." 

I  could  not  have  approached  her  in  any  way 
more  telling  than  to  make  confidence  on  her  part 
seem  a  corollary  to  confidence  on  ours.  She  cast 
about  with  an  indulgent  air  for  something  new. 
And  then  I  heard  for  the  first  time  of  the  "  sort  of 
cousin "  who  had  come  to  keep  house  for  my 
grandfather,  and  to  bring  up  the  little  girl  of  four. 
I  wondered  the  more  at  so  important  a  figure 
having  been  left  out  of  all  previous  pictures,  when 
I  heard  that  my  grandfather  had  cared  more  for 
this  **  sort  of  cousin  "  than  he  had  cared  for  his 
only  child.  The  cousin  must  have  been  a  horrible 
woman,  though  my  mother  told  me  so  little  about 
her,  I  cannot  think  how  I  knew.  The  most 
definite  thing  that  was  said  was:  "She  brought 
out  all  that  was  least  good  in  your  grandfather." 


THE    CLOUD   AGAIN  115 

And  when  he  ceased  to  care  for  the  cousin  in  one 
way,  she  made  him  care  for  her  in  another.  "  She 
ministered  to  all  his  whims  and  perversities."  My 
mother  dismissed  the  first  sixteen  years  of  her 
life  with :  "  I  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  evil  before 
I  was  grown;  mercifully,  I  met  your  father  when 
I  was  still  very  young." 

He  was  the  one  man,  I  gathered,  whom  she 
had  ever  found  worthy  of  all  trust,  all  love;  and 
she  had  been  so  glad  to  leave  home — to  leave 
England  I 

But  out  there  in  India  she  must  have  seen 
plenty  of  nice  army  people. 

Oh,  plenty  of  army  people. 

She  seemed  not  to  want  to  dwell  much  even  on 
the  happy  time.  She  had  her  two  children  in 
three  years.  The  babies  kept  her  at  home,  and 
she  had  loved  being  at  home  with  the  babies — and 
above  all  with  my  father  in  his  spare  hours.  Then, 
as  we  knew,  he  had  been  killed  out  tiger-hunting. 
And  she  broke  off,  "  Now  go  on  about  the 
Boynes." 

I  asked  her,  mischievously,  why  she  took  such 
an  interest  in  the  Boynes,  as  though  I  had  not 
tried  to  bring  that  very  thing  about.  Her  ideal 


n6  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

of  "  the  confidence  that  should  exist "  broke  down 
even  here;  the  navy,  she  said  evasively,  was  "  the 
finest  of  the  services." 

"  Not  finer  than  the  army,"  I  protested. 

"  Yes,  finer  than  the  army.  Peace  was  the  real 
4  enemy  '  to  soldiers ;  but  peace  did  not  demoral- 
ise sailors,  for  there  was  always  the  sea  for  them 
to  conquer.  Was  Hermione  expecting  to  see  the 
Boynes  soon  again?" 

I  smiled  inwardly.  She  might  as  well  have  con- 
fessed that  she  thought  the  older  Boyne  might 
"  do  "  for  me,  and  the  younger  Boyne  for  Betty. 

But  what  had  become  of  the  ideal  of  confidence? 

Confidence,  to  be  complete,  must  needs  be 
mutual.  If  Betty  and  I  had  not  been  able  to  tear 
out  of  our  hearts  and  hold  up  for  inspection  those 
shy  hopes  of  ours,  neither  had  our  mother  been 
able  to  show  us  the  true  face  of  memory.  I  did 
not  know  then  how  hard  this  was  to  do,  or  that 
the  faithfullest  intention  must  fall  short;  that 
genius  itself  cannot  pass  on  to  others  all  the 
poignancy  of  past  Hope,  or — mercifully — more 
than  a  pale  reflection  of  past  Despair. 

There  are  no  Dark  Ages  more  impenetrable 
than  those  that  lie  immediately  behind.  They 


THE    CLOUD   AGAIN  117 

may  put  on  an  air  of  the  explained  and  the  famil- 
iar; they  are  a  mystery  for  ever  and  for  ever 
sealed. 

The  young  are  secretly  perplexed  when  the 
great  words  are  used  about  the  immediate  past. 
They  hear  of  Love  and  Joy,  and  when  they  see 
the  issue,  stand  appalled. 

The  idea  that  my  mother  could  have  felt,  even 

about  my  own  father,  as  I  felt  about No  I 

I  looked  at  her  lying  on  the  sofa  with  her  eyes 
raised,  and  that  air,  anxious,  intent,  of  the  eaves- 
dropper overhearing  ill.  So,  then,  one  could  have 
had  all  that  love,  and  live  to  wear  a  look  like  this. 

I  held  fast  to  such  reassurance  as  I  could  recall. 
I  remembered  how,  when  we  were  younger,  the 
mere  tone  of  voice  in  which  she  said  "  your  father  " 
had  seemed  to  bring  back  the  warmth  of  that  old 
Happiness,  the  lamp  of  that  old  Safety  which  had 
lit  the  happy  time.  Out  of  those  far-off  days,  so 
momentous  for  Bettina  and  me — days  which  our 
mother  must  recall  so  vividly,  and  which  I  saw, 
now,  I  should  never  have  the  key  to — there  never- 
theless had  come  to  me,  as  come  to  other  children, 
an  echo  of  the  music  that  had  fallen  silent;  dim 
apprehensions  of  the  beauty  of  life  to  those  two 


n8  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

lovers  in  the  gorgeous  East;  and  out  of  starlit 
Indian  nights,  "  hot  and  scented,"  came  vague 
wafts  of  bygone  sweetness  that  moved  me  to  the 
verge  of  tears.  For  it  was  all  ended. 

The  strange  thing  was  that,  if  she  had  never 
known  that  happiness,  I  should  have  felt  less  sorry 
for  my  mother  now;  less  uneasy,  in  a  way,  at  the 
Janus-face  which  life  could  hide  until  some  unex- 
pected hour. 

Perhaps  to  a  good  many  young  people  comes 
this  haunting  sense  of  the  sadness  of  life  to  older 
people. 

Especially  when  I  thought  of  Eric  I  felt  sharp 
pity  for  the  race  of  older  women — that  grey 
majority  for  whom  the  Great  Radiance  had  faded 
little  by  little;  or  those  like  my  mother,  out  of 
whose  hand  the  torch  had  been  struck  sharply 
and  the  darkness  swallowed. 

She  very  seldom  touched  the  piano  at  this  time ; 
but  often,  when  I  was  with  her,  that  old  feeling, 
which  belonged  to  the  evenings  when  she  sang  to 
herself,  came  back  to  me ;  a  feeling  of  overwhelm- 
ing sadness — and  a  fear. 

Not  even  my  secret  could  console  me  at  such 
moments. 


THE    CLOUD   AGAIN  119 

Eric  will  never  come  back,  I  said  to  myself;  or 
he  will  come  back  with  a  wife.  And,  with  that 
start  I  had  learned  from  my  mother — where  was 
Betty? 

She  was  late. 

She  was  very  late. 

Unaccountably,  alarmingly  late 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WHERE  IS  BETTINA? 

SHE  had  come  running  in  a  little  after  six  o'clock 
to  ask  if  we  mightn't,  both  of  us,  go  and  dine 
with  Hermione.  I  said  I  didn't  see  why  Bettina 
shouldn't  go,  but  we  could  not  ask  till  my  mother 
was  awake;  she  had  been  having  broken  nights, 
and  had  just  fallen  asleep.  So  Bettina  waited — 
nearly  half  an  hour;  still  my  mother  slept.  Then 
Bettina  went  away  softly  and  dressed,  "  so  as  to 
be  ready,  in  case." 

She  came  back  in  her  white  frock,  and  still  the 
sleeper  had  not  waked  nor  stirred. 

We  went  out  in  the  hall  and  held  a  whispered 
conference.  "  She  won't  mind  a  bit,"  Bettina  was 
sure.  "  It  isn't  as  if  it  would  do  another  time  " — 
for  the  Helmstones  were  off  again  to-morrow. 
To  clinch  the  argument,  Betty  told  me  that  Her- 
mione was  expecting  a  letter,  by  the  last  post, 
from  a  friend  of  Ranny's;  the  one  chance  of  hear- 
ing anything  for  Heaven  knew  how  long. 

So  I  let  Bettina  go. 


120 


WHERE    IS   BETTINA?         121 

My  mother  never  woke  till  nearly  nine,  and  of 
course  the  first  thing  she  asked  was,  "  Where  is 
Betty?" 

I  said  the  maid  had  taken  her,  and  Lady  Helm- 
stone  had  promised  to  send  her  home. 

My  mother  was  extremely  ill-pleased  that  Bet- 
tina  had  gone.  I  had  hoped  that  after  that  pro- 
found sleep  she  would  wake  up  feeling  better,  as 
I  have  noticed  the  books  nearly  always  say  is  what 
will  happen.  But  I  have  noticed,  since,  that 
people  who  have  been  sleeping  heavily  at  some 
unseasonable  hour  will  often  waken  not  refreshed 
and  calmed,  but  out  of  sorts,  and  easily  fretted  by 
quite  small  things.  They  seem  to  require  time 
before  they  can  collect  themselves  and  see  the 
waking  world  in  true  proportion. 

"  We  thought  you  wouldn't  mind,"  I  said. 

And  why  should  we?  Why,  above  all,  should 
I,  who  was  so  much  older  .  .  .  ? 

"  To  go  anywhere  else  ...  I  should  have  been 
against  it,"  I  said,  **  but  to  the  Helmstones — where 
you  let  her  go  so  constantly." 

Saying  that  was  a  mistake. 

Did  not  Betty  know,  above  all,  did  not  I  know, 
the  feeling  of  all  the  proper  sort  of  mothers  about 


122  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

young  girls  being  away  from  home  at  night? 
Day-visiting — a  totally  different  matter. 

It  was  "  the  last  evening  for  weeks,"  I  reminded 
her.  The  Helmstones  were  going  back  to 
town.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  not  sorry,"  said  my  mother. 

To  my  surprise  the  circumstance  that  seemed  to 
annoy  her  most  was  that  I  had  not  gone  with  Bet- 
tina.  She  spoke  to  me  in  such  a  way  I  felt  the 
tears  come  into  my  eyes.  "  I  stayed  on  your  ac- 
count," I  said. 

"  I  have  told  you  before" — and  she  told  me 
again. 

The  supper  tray  came  up,  and  went  down 
scarcely  touched.  I  asked  if  I  should  read  to  her. 

No.  There  had  been  reading  enough  for  that 
day. 

So  I  mended  the  fire  and  brought  some  sewing. 

She  lay  with  the  candle  alight  on  the  night 
table,  waiting,  listening. 

"Who  is  to  be  there?" 

"  Oh,  just  the  family,  I  suppose." 

"Did  you  ask?" 

"  No — but  Betty  would  have  said,  if  .  .  ." 

" never  even  asked!  " 


WHERE    IS   BETTINA?          123 

We  sat  in  silence. 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"  A  quarter  to  ten." 

"  It  is  not  like  Bettina,"  she  said  presently. 
Bettina  had  never  in  her  life  done  such  a  thing 
before. 

I  agreed  she  never  had.  If  Bettina  trans- 
gressed (and  I  admit  that  this  was  seldom),  she 
never  did  so  outright.  And  she  was  not  sly.  She 
did  not  so  much  evade  as  avoid  an  inconvenient 
rule. 

My  mother  remembered,  no  doubt,  that  any  sin 
of  deliberate  disobedience  was  far  more  likely  to 
be  mine.  "  I  suppose  the  child,  not  able  to  ask 
my  permission,  came  to  you." 

Yes,  she  had  consulted  me. 

"  And  you  took  it  upon  yourself " 

I  sat  there,  in  disgrace. 

Presently:  "  Perhaps  the  Boynes  have  motored 
down.  Or  one  of  them." 

I  said  I  had  no  reason  to  think  so.  All  the 
same,  I  couldn't  help  welcoming  the  suggestion. 
For  the  idea  that  the  Boynes,  "  or  one  of  them," 
might  be  there,  seemed,  oddly  enough,  to  excuse 
Bettina  in  my  mother's  eyes.  And  she  was  moved 


124  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

to  make  me  understand  why  I  had  been  re- 
proached. We  had  to  be  far  more  careful  than 
most  girls.  I  heard  about  the  heavy  responsibility 
of  bringing  up  "  girls  without  a  father." 

I  wondered  in  what  way  our  father's  being  here 
would  have  altered  the  events  of  this  particular 
evening.  And  since  he  had  been  quoted  to  justify 
anxiety,  I  made  bold  to  go  to  him  for  cheer.  At 
times  of  stress  before,  I  had  invoked  my  father. 
Not  often,  and  ail-cautiously.  And  never  yet  in 
vain.  That  night  I  wondered  aloud  what  were 
the  kind  of  things  our  father  would  have  done. 

"  His  mere  being  here  would  make  all  the  dif- 
ference." 

His  mere  name  certainly  did  much.  Once  again 
I  had  cause  to  bless  him  for  taking  the  chill  out 
of  the  domestic  atmosphere. 

She  talked  more  about  him  and,  by  implication, 
more  about  herself  that  night  than  ever  before  or 
after.  She  told  me  of  the  mistakes  he  had  saved 
her  from.  The  things  he  had  warned  her  against. 
Though  he  was  brave  as  a  lion,  she  would  have 
me  believe  that  he  was  afraid  of  trusting  people. 
He  had  said  to  her  after  a  certain  occurrence 

"What  occurrence?"  I  interrupted. 


WHERE    IS   BETTINA?          125 

"  No  need  to  go  into  that,"  she  said  hurriedly. 
The  point  lay  in  his  comment:  "  The  safe  course 
is  not  to  trust  anyone." 

"  That  is  very  uncomfortable,"  I  said. 

It  was  better,  she  answered,  to  be  less  comfort- 
able and  safe,  than  to  be  more  comfortable 
and . 

"And  what?" 

She  had  stopped  suddenly,  and  felt  for  her  watch 
on  the  night  table.  '*  Ten  minutes  past.  They 
will  surely  see  that  she  starts  for  home  by  ten 
o'clock." 

We  sat  for  five  minutes  without  speaking.  1 
thinking  of  my  father. 

Then  we  heard  the  maids  making  the  nightly 
round,  shutting  and  locking  up  the  house. 

"  Look  out  of  the  window,"  my  mother  said. 

I  could  see  nothing.  The  night  was  dark  and 
still. 

"  She  can't  be  long  now,"  my  mother  said. 
"  But  go  and  tell  them  they  may  bolt  the  front 
door.  We  are  sure  to  hear  her  coming  up  the 
walk." 

She  called  me  back.  "  Tell  them  not  to  forget 
to  put  the  chain  on  the  door." 


126  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Oh,  the  times  we  had  been  told  that ! 

Downstairs  I  found  the  house  shut  up  and 
barred  as  for  a  siege.  The  maids  had  done  their 
work  and  vanished.  I  was  the  only  creature  stir- 
ring. Upstairs  the  same.  My  mother  seemed 
not  to  hear  me  come  back  into  the  room.  She 
was  lying  with  the  candle-light  on  her  face,  and  on 
her  face  the  old  listening  fear.  What  made  her 
look  like  that? 

If  there  had  been  anything,  if  there  had  been 
even  that  old  mournful  sound  of  the  wind,  I  could 
have  minded  less.  But  the  night  was  very  quiet. 
The  house  was  hushed  as  death.  And  still  she 
listened. 

Now  and  then  she  would  lift  her  eyelids  sud- 
denly, and  the  intense  white  of  the  eyeballs  shone, 
while  she  strained  to  catch  some  sound  beyond  my 
narrower  range. 

I  sat  there  by  the  fire  a  long,  long  time.  And 
she  never  spoke — until  I,  unable  to  bear  the  still- 
ness any  longer,  fell  back  for  that  last  time  on  the 
familiar  Magic — my  father,  and  the  old,  beautiful 
days.  She  stirred.  She  folded  and  unfolded  her 
hands,  and  then  took  up  the  theme.  But  in  a 
different  key. 


WHERE    IS   BETTINA?          127 

"  The  more  I  came  to  understand  other  women's 
lives,"  she  said,  "  the  more  I  saw  that  my  hap- 
piness was  like  the  safety  of  a  person  walking  a 
narrow  plank  across  a  chasm."  Then  after  a  mo- 
ment, she  added:  "  A  question  of  nice  equilibrium." 

11 1  don't  know  how  you  ever  bore  the  fall,"  I 
said. 

"The  fall?" 

11  Yes — when  father  was  killed — and  all  the 
happiness  fell  down." 

Then  she  said  something  wholly  incomprehen- 
sible at  the  time,  but  which  I  understand  better 
now.  **  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  I  would  have  borne 
what  you  call  *  the  fall '  less  well  if  I  hadn't 
known  .  .  .  there  are  worse  than  tigers  in  the 
world's  jungle." 

I  felt  I  was  on  the  track  of  some  truer  under- 
standing, and  a  secret  excitement  took  hold  of  me. 
"  How  was  it  you  came  to  know  that?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  is  a  thing,"  she  said,  "  that  even  happy 
women  learn."  Then,  hurriedly,  she  went  on: 
"  And  it  ended — my  happiness — before  any  stain 
or  tarnish  dimmed  it.  All  bright  and  shining  one 
moment,  the  next  all  vanished." 

I  watched  the  face  I  knew  so  well.     Covertly, 


128  MY  LITTLE    SISTER 

I  watched  it.  Saw  the  delicate  lineaments  a  little 
pinched  with  anxiety.  The  eyes  veiled  one  mo- 
ment, the  next  lifting  wide  as  at  a  sudden  call. 

"What  was  that?"  she  said. 

I  heard  nothing. 

Oftenest  that  quick  lift  of  heavy  eyelids,  and 
the  flash  of  bright  fixity,  would  come  without  any 
following  of  speech.  And  the  eloquence  of  that 
silence,  tense,  glittering,  wrought  more  upon  my 
nerves  than  any  words.  All  my  body  strung  to 
attention,  I  listened  with  my  soul. 

No  sound. 

No  sound  at  all.  Then,  inwardly,  I  rebelled 
against  the  tyranny  and  waste  of  this  emotion. 

Why  was  she  like  this? 

"  Have  they  put  on  the  chain?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"And  bolted  the  door?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  do  you  know  they  have  bolted  it?  " 

"  I  heard  them." 

"Heard  them?" 

"  Heard  the  bolt." 

"  One  may  easily  think  a  stiff  bolt  has  gone 
home,  and  all  the  while " 


WHERE    IS   BETTINA?          129 

11  But  I  am  sure." 

My  easy  certainty  seemed  to  anger  her.  "  I 
thought  so,  too,  once."  She  said  it  with  a 
vehemence  that  startled  me. 

After  a  moment:  "Was  that  here?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  no,  no  " — she  shook  it  off. 

I  went  and  knelt  down  by  the  bed.  "  Tell  me 
about  it,  mother." 

"  No,  no.  It  is  not  the  kind  of  thing  you  need 
ever  know." 

"  How  can  you  be  sure?  You  weren't  expect- 
ing anything  to  happen."  I  felt  my  way  by  the 
shrinking  in  her  face.  "  Yet  someone  came  to  the 
unbolted  door ?  " 

"What  makes  you  think  that!  "  she  exclaimed, 
and  I  was  hot  and  cold  under  her  look. 

"  It — it  only  came  into  my  head " ;  and  then, 
with  fresh  courage,  or  renewed  curiosity,  "  But 
I  am  right ! "  I  said,  with  sudden  firmness. 
"Isn't  it  so?  You  were  horribly  frightened, 
weren't  you?  "  I  touched  her  hand,  expecting  she 
would  draw  it  away  from  me,  but  the  fingers  had 
locked  on  the  silk  frill  of  the  quilt.  They  were 
cold;  they  made  me  think  of  death. 

"  Yes,"   she  said,  very  low,   "  I  was  horribly 


130  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

frightened."  I  felt  the  shuddering  that  ran  along 
her  wrist,  and  the  chill  of  that  old  fear  of  hers 
crept  into  my  blood,  too.  She  looked  through  me, 
as  though  I  were  vapour,  as  though  the  bodyless 
Dread  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  once  again  for  that 
instant — as  though  that  were  the  most  real 
presence  in  the  room. 

'  Tell  me,"  I  whispered,  "  tell  me  what  it  was." 

" impossible   to   talk   about   such   things." 

She  drew  away  her  hand.  "  All  you  need  to 
know  is  ...  the  need  of  taking  care.  Of  never 
running  risks.  What  time  is  it?  " 

"  Five  minutes  past  eleven." 

"  Did  Lady  Helmstone  say  she  and  Hermione 
would  walk  back  with  Bettina?  " 

"  No,  she  didn't  say  that." 

"What  did  she  say?" 
'  Just  that  she  would  send  Betty  home." 

After  some  time  she  said  quite  suddenly: 
11  That  might  mean  alone  in  the  motor." 

I  was  going  to  say  "Why  not?"  But  as  I 
looked  up  from  my  work  at  the  face  under  the 
candle  light,  a  most  foolish  and  indefinable  fear 
flashed  across  my  mind — a  feeling  too  ridiculous 
to  own — sudden,  indefinable  dread  of  that  in- 


WHERE    IS   BETTINA?          131 

offensive  man,  the  Helmstones'  head  chauffeur.  I 
had  no  sooner  cast  out  the  childish  thought  than 
I  remembered  the  two  under  men.  One  only  a 
sort  of  motor-house  "  odd  man."  To  that  hang- 
dog creature  might  fall  the  task  of  driving  Betty 
home !  I  had  thought  of  this  man  vaguely  enough 
before,  yet  with  some  dash  of  human  sympathy, 
for  it  was  common  talk  that  he  was  "  put  upon  " 
by  the  other  men.  He  was  a  weakling,  and  un- 
happy; now  I  suddenly  felt  him  to  be  evil — des- 
perate. 

Oh,  why  had  I  let  Bettina  go! 

Even  if  the  chauffeurs,  all  three,  were  decent 
enough  ordinarily,  what  if  just  to-night  they  had 
been  drinking? 

Betty  coming  across  the  deserted  heath  with  a 
drunken  driver 

Oh,  God,  I  prayed,  don't  let  anything  happen 
to  Bettina.  .  .  . 

***** 

A  quarter  past  eleven. 

I  put  on  a  bold  face.  "  They  wouldn't,  I  think, 
have  a  motor-car  out  for  Betty  at  this  hour,  and 
the  reason  she  is  late  is  because  she  has  told  them 
she  would  like  the  walk." 


132  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

'  They  will  hardly  send  a  woman  with  her  at 
this  time  of  night." 

We  both  started  violently,  and  all  because  a 
coal  had  fallen  out  of  the  grate  on  the  metal  fen- 
der. 

My  mother  was  the  first  to  speak:  "  They  are 
haphazard  people,  I  sometimes  think.  .  .  .  You 
don't  suppose  they  would  send  her  back  with  a 
groom.  .  .  .?  " 

I  said  I  was  sure  they  would  not,  though  an 
hour  before  I  would  have  asked,  Why  not? 

"  Lord  Helmstone  couldn't  be  expected  to  put 
himself  out.  I  wish  I  had  not  let  the  servants  go 
to  bed!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why  didn't  you  think 
of  it?  Of  course,  they  should  have  gone  and 
brought  Bettina  home." 

I  saw  now  how  right  and  proper  this  would 
have  been. 

Half  past  eleven. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  I  said. 

"  Go  and  look  out  again,  you  may  see  a  lantern, 
or  the  motor-lamps." 

I  leaned  out  into  the  fresh-smelling  darkness, 
and  I  saw  nothing,  I  heard  nothing. 

I  hung  there,  unwilling  to  draw  in  my  head  and 


WHERE    IS   BETTINA?          133 

admit  the  world  without  was  empty  of  Bettina. 
She  had  been  thrown  out  of  the  car.  She  was 
lying  by  the  roadside  somewhere,  dead,  that  was 
why  she  didn't  come  home. 

Suddenly  I  thought  of  Gerald  Boyne.  What 
if,  after  all,  he  had  been  dining  there.  He  would 
be  sure  to  want  to  bring  Bettina  home.  Yes,  and 
those  casual  Helmstones  would  turn  Bettina  over 
to  him  without  a  thought.  A  man  Ranny  wouldn't 
let  his  sister  dance  with  in  a  room  full  of  her 
friends.  .  .  .  Bettina,  setting  out  with  Gerald 
Boyne  to  cross  the  lonely  heath — and  never  reach- 
ing home. 

I  knew  all  this  was  wild  and  foolish  .  .  .  then 
why  did  these  imaginings  make  me  feel  I  could 
not  bear  the  suspense  another  moment?  I  shut 
the  window  and  turned  round.  "  You  must  let 
me  go  for  her,"  I  said. 

The  same  suggestion  must  have  been  that  mo- 
ment on  her  lips.  "  Go,  wake  the  servants,"  she 
said,  "  tell  them  to  dress  quickly.  Get  your  cloak 
and  light  the  lantern."  She  gave  her  short  sharp 
directions.  The  young  servant  was  to  go  with 
me.  The  old  one  was  to  lock  the  door  behind  us, 
and  wait  up  with  my  mother.  I  went  with  a 


134  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

candle  through  silent  passages,  and  knocked  on 
doors. 

I  left  the  lantern  burning  down  in  the  hall,  and 
in  my  cloak  went  back  to  my  mother's  room. 

She  was  leaning  out,  over  the  side  of  the  bed 
listening. 

"  Aren't  they  ready?  " 

"  They  are  only  just  roused." 

"  Servants  take  ten  times  as  long  to  dress  as 
Hark.  Look  out !  " 

I  went  back  to  the  window  and  peered  between 
the  close-drawn  curtains,  with  hands  at  my  temples 
on  either  side  of  my  eyes. 

Nothing. 

Except  .  .  .  Yes,  I  could  hear  the  heavy  step 
of  the  older  woman  down  in  the  hall  unlocking, 
unbolting,  unchaining  the  door  .  .  .  that  the 
housemaid  and  I  might  lose  no  time  when  she  was 
ready. 

The  old  woman  must  be  waiting  for  us  there 
below,  with  the  lantern  in  her  hand.  A  faint  light 
was  lying  on  the  path.  Not  a  sound  now  in  all 
the  world  except  my  mother's  voice  behind  me: 

"  You  will  take  the  short  cut." 

II  Oh  yes." 


WHERE    IS   BETTINA?          135 

"  And  as  you  go  don't  talk — listen." 

"Listen!"  I  echoed,  with  mounting  horror, 
"  What  should  I  hear?  " 

"  How  do  we  know?  " 

A  chill  went  down  my  back. 

The  bedroom-door  opened,  and  Bettina  walked 
in. 

"Such  a  nice  evening!  They've  been  teaching 
me  bridge.  Why  have  you  put  on  your  cloak? 
Why  are  you  looking — oh!  what  has  happened 
to  you?  " 

Not  very  much  was  said  to  Bettina  that  night. 
She  and  two  of  the  Helmstones'  maids  had  come 
round  by  the  orchard-gate,  walking  softly  on  the 
grass,  "  so  as  not  to  waken  mother." 

Only  a  little  crestfallen,  she  was  sent  away  to 
bed.  My  mother  had  motioned  me  to  wait.  As 
I  watched  Bettina  making  her  apologies  and  her 
good-night,  I  thought  how  worse  than  useless  had 
been  all  that  anxiety  and  strain.  "  I  shall  re- 
member to-night,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  whenever  I 
am  frightened  again." 

But  this,  I  could  see  before  she  spoke,  was  not 
the  moral  my  mother  was  drawing.  "  Shut  the 
door,"  she  signed.  And  when  I  had  come  back  to 


i36  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

her,  she  drew  herself  up  in  bed  and  laid  her  hand 
on  mine.  u  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  promise," 
she  said.  "  It  is  not  fair  to  girls  not  to  let  them 
know  that  terrible  things  can  happen.  Promise 
me  that  you  will  take  better  care  of  Bettina. 

Never  let  anyone  make  you  forget " 

I  promised — oh,  I  promised  that! 


CHAPTER  XV 

MY    SECRET 

ERIC,  like  the  violets  and  primroses,  came  earlier 
that  third  spring. 

He  seemed  an  old  friend  now,  with  an  estab- 
lished footing  in  the  house.  Yet  I  had  never 
been  alone  with  him  for  more  than  five  minutes 
before  the  day  I  told  him  my  secret. 

I  had  imagined  it  all  so  different  from  the  way 
it  fell  out.  I  said  to  myself  that  I  would  meet 
him  on  his  way  home  some  evening,  after  he  had 
played  the  last  round.  He  would  never  know 
that  I  had  been  waiting  for  him  in  the  copse;  but 
that  would  be  where  I  should  tell  him,  standing 
by  the  nearer  stile,  where  I  had  first  seen  kindness 
in  his  eyes. 

My  mother's  health  was  worse  again  that  spring, 
and  when  I  wasn't  studying  I  was  much  with  her. 
After  Eric  came  I  stayed  with  her  even  more,  for 
he  said  she  had  lost  ground. 

He  discouraged  her  from  coming  downstairs. 
I  believe  he  prevailed  on  her  to  keep  her  room 
chiefly  by  coming  constantly  to  see  her,  bringing 

137 


138  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

books  and  papers.  My  mother's  sick-room  was 
not  like  any  other  I  have  seen.  It  was  full  of 
light  and  air,  and  hope  and  pleasantness.  She 
would  lie  on  the  sofa  in  one  of  the  loose  gowns 
she  looked  so  lovely  in,  and  we  would  have  tea 
up  there. 

Nearly  always  I  managed  to  go  down  to  the 
door  with  Eric. 

One  day,  that  very  first  week,  he  came  a  good 
hour  before  we  expected  him.  Bettina  had  shut 

herself  up  to  write  to  Hermione,  " and  I  am 

afraid  my  mother  is  asleep,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  you  are  not,"  he  answered.  I  saw  his 
eyes  fall  on  the  books  and  papers  that  littered  the 
morning-room  sofa,  and  I  felt  myself  grow  red. 
The  books  would  betray  me ! 

The  strange  thing  was  that  he  pushed  them 
away  without  ever  looking  at  them!  And  he  sat 
down  beside  me. 

He  had  never  been  so  close  to  me  before.  I 
think  I  was  outwardly  quite  unmoved.  But  I 
could  not  see  him,  even  at  a  distance,  without  in- 
ward commotion.  When  he  sat  down  so  near 
me,  a  great  many  pulses  I  had  not  known  before 
were  in  my  body  began  to  beat  and  hammer.  I 


MY    SECRET  139 

felt  my  heart  grow  many  sizes  too  big,  and  my 
breast-bone  ache  under  the  pressure.  I  said  to 
myself  the  one  essential  was  that  he  should  not 
suspect — for  him  to  guess  the  state  he  had  thrown 
me  into  would  be  the  supreme  disaster.  He  might 
despise  me.  Almost  certainly  he  would  think  I 
was  hysterical.  I  knew  the  contempt  he  felt  for 
hysterical  women.  Never,  never  should  he  think 
me  one !  I  would  rather  die,  sitting  rigidly  in  my 
corner  without  a  sign,  than  let  him  think  I  had 
any  taint  of  the  hysterical  in  me ! 

Above  all,  for  my  Great  Secret's  sake,  I  must 
show  self-command.  Upon  that  I  saw,  in  a  flash, 
this  was  the  ideal  moment  for  telling  him  about 
The  Plan. 

He  asked  how  had  my  mother  slept.  I  don't 
know  what  I  said.  But  I  remember  that  he  spoke 
very  gently  of  her.  And  he  said  I  must  husband 
my  strength.  I  stayed  too  much  indoors,  he  said. 
Hereafter  I  was  to  take  an  hour's  brisk  walk 
every  day  of  my  life. 

I  told  him  I  couldn't  always  do  that  in  these 
days. 

"  You  must,"  he  said. 

I  thought  of  my  books,  and  shook  my  head. 


i4o  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  Won't  you  do  it  if  I  ask  you  to?  "  he  said. 

He  leaned  a  little  towards  me.  I  dared  not 
look  up. 

"  I  understand  your  not  wanting  to  leave  your 

mother,"  he  said.    "  But  couldn't  your  sister " 

Then,   before   I  could   answer,   "  No,"   he   said, 
smiling  a  little,  "  I  suppose  she  couldn't." 

There  was  something  in  his  tone  that  did  not 
please  me.  "  You  mean  Betty  is  too  young?  " 

No;  he  didn't  mean  that,  he  said. 

What  did  he  mean? 

"  Well,  she  has  other  preoccupations,  hasn't 
she?  "  he  said  lightly. 

'  You  mean  Hermione?  Hermione  and  all  the 
family  are  in  London." 

No;  he  didn't  mean  Hermione.  I  was  in  too 
much  inner  turmoil  to  disentangle  his  meaning 
then.  For  he  went  on  quickly  to  say:  "Suppose 
I  sit  with  your  mother  for  that  hour,  while  you  go 
out  and  get  some  exercise?  " 

I  was  to  lose  an  hour  of  him — tramping  about 
alone!  The  very  thought  gave  me  an  immense 
self-pity.  My  eyes  grew  moist.  .  .  .  "  Come, 
come !  "  I  said  to  myself,  "  keep  a  tight  rein !  " 

Just  as   I   was   getting  myself  under   control 


MY    SECRET  141 

again,  he  undid  it  all  by  laying  his  hand  over 
mine. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  w-will  you?  "  I  stammered;  while  to  my- 
self I  said:  "  He  is  being  kind;  don't  think  it  is 
more — don't  dare  think  it  is  more !  " 

Though  I  couldn't  help  thinking  it  was  more,  I 
turned  to  the  thought  of  my  Great  Scheme  as  a 
kind  of  refuge  from  a  feeling  too  overwhelming  to 
be  faced. 

And  yet,  I  don't  know,  it  may  have  been  partly 
some  survival  in  me  of  the  coquetry  I  thought  I 
hated;  that,  too,  may  have  helped  to  make  me 
catch  nervously  at  a  change  of  subject.  So  I  in- 
terrupted with  something  about:  "If  you  really 
do  want  to  help  me " 

But  I  found  I  could  not  talk  coherently  while 
his  touch  was  on  my  hand.  The  words  I  had  re- 
hearsed and  meant  to  say — they  flew  away.  I 
felt  my  thoughts  dissolving,  my  brain  a  jelly,  my 
bones  turning  to  water. 

With  the  little  remnant  of  will-power  left  I 
drew  my  hand  away.  My  soul  and  my  body 
seemed  to  bleed  at  the  wound  of  that  sundering. 
For  in  those  few  seconds'  contact  we  two  seemed 


142  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

to  have  grown  into  one.  I  found  I  had  risen  to 
my  feet  and  gone  to  sit  by  the  table,  with  a  sense 
of  having  left  most  of  myself  behind  clinging  to 
his  hand.  I  made  an  immense  effort  to  remem- 
ber things  he  had  told  us  about  those  early  strug- 
gles of  his.  And  I  asked  questions  about  that 
time — questions  that  made  him  stare:  "  How  did 
you  guess?  What  put  that  in  your  head?"  I 
said  I  imagined  it  would  be  like  that. 

"  Well,  it  was  like  that." 

"And  you  overcame  everything!  "  I  triumphed. 
'  You  are  the  fortunate  one  of  your  family." 

He  laughed  a  little  grim  kind  of  laugh.  "  The 
standard  of  fortune  is  not  very  high  with  us."  He 
looked  thoroughly  discontented. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  I  said,  "  you  are  one  of  the  un- 
grateful people." 

What  had  he  to  be  grateful  for?  He  threw 
the  question  at  me. 

"  Why,  that  you  have  the  most  interesting  pro- 
fession in  the  world,"  I  said. 

'You  don't  mean  the  practice  of  medicine! — 
mere  bread-and-butter." 

'  You  don't  love  your  profession  I  " 
He  smiled,   and  that  time  the  smile  was   less 


MY    SECRET  143 

ungenial.  But  I  had  not  liked  the  tone  of  patron- 
age about  his  work. 

"They  were  all  wasted  on  you,  then — those 
splendid  opportunities — the  clinic  in  Hamburg,  the 
years  in  Paris " 

"  Oh,  well  " — he  looked  taken  aback  at  my 
arraignment — "  I  mayn't  be  a  thundering  success, 
but  I  won't  say  I'm  a  waster." 

"  If  you  don't  love  and  adore  the  finest  profes- 
sion in  the  world !  Yes,  somebody  else  ought 

to  have  had  your  chances.  Me,  for  instance." 

"  You !  Oh,  I  dare  say,"  his  smile  was  humor- 
ous and  humouring. 

"  You  think  I'm  not  in  earnest.  But  I  am." 
I  went  to  the  cupboard  where  Bettina  and  I  each 
had  a  shelf,  and  brought  out  an  old  wooden  work- 
box.  I  opened  it  with  the  little  key  on  my  chain. 
I  took  out  papers  and  letters.  "  These  are  from 
the  Women's  Medical  School  in  Hunter  Street" 
— I  laid  the  letters  open  before  him — "  answers  to 
my  inquiries  about  terms  and  conditions." 

He  glanced  through  one  or  two.  "  What  put 
this  into  your  head?  "  he  said,  astonished,  and  not 
the  least  pleased  so  far  as  one  could  see.  "  How 
did  you  know  of  the  existence  of  these  people?  " 


144  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  You  left  a  copy  of  the  Lancet  here  once." 
Something  in  his  face  made  me  add:  "But  I 
should  have  found  a  way  without  that." 

"What  way — way  to  what?"  He  spoke 
irritably  in  a  raised  voice.  I  looked  anxiously  at 
the  door.  "  We  won't  say  anything  just  yet  to  my 
mother,"  I  begged.  "  My  mother  wouldn't — 
understand." 

"  What  wouldn't  she  understand? "  All  his 
kindness  had  gone.  He  was  once  more  the  cold 
inaccessible  creature  I  had  seen  that  first  day  stalk- 
ing up  to  Big  Klaus's  door. 

"  What  I  mean  is,"  I  explained,  quite  miserably 
crestfallen,  "  my  mother  wouldn't  understand  what 
I  feel  about  studying  medicine.  But  you  " — and 
I  had  a  struggle  to  keep  the  tears  back — "  I've 
looked  forward  so  to  telling  you " 

He  turned  the  papers  over  with  an  odd  mis- 
liking  expression. 

"  For  one  thing,  you  could  never  pass  the  en- 
trance examination,"  he  said.  I  asked  why  he 
thought  that. 

"  Do  you  see  yourself  going  to  classes  in  Lon- 
don, cramming  yourself  with  all  this?  " — his  hand 
swept  the  qualifications  list. 


MY    SECRET  145 

"  Not  classes  in  London,"  I  said.  "  But  people 
do  the  London  Matriculation  without  that.  I  am. 
taking  the  University  Tutorial  Correspondence 
Course,"  I  said. 

I  was  swallowing  tears  as  I  boasted  myself 
already  rather  good  at  Botany  and  French.  My 
mother  thought  even  my  German  tolerable. 

I  picked  up  the  little  pamphlet  issued  by  the 
University  of  London  on  the  subject  of  Matricula- 
tion Regulations,  and  I  pointed  out  Section  III., 
"  Provincial  Examinations."  The  January  and 
June  Matriculation  Examinations  were  held  at  the 
Brighton  Municipal  Technical  College.  He  could 
see  that  made  it  all  quite  convenient  and  easy. 

"  I  can  see  it  is  all  quite  mad,"  he  answered. 
"  Suppose  by  some  miracle  you  were  to  pass  the 
entrance  exams. — have  you  any  idea  how  long 
they  keep  you  grinding  away  afterwards?  " 

"  Five  to  seven  years,"  I  said. 

"Well!  can't  you  see  what  a  wild  idea  it  is?  " 

I  said  to  myself:  he  knows  about  our  strait- 
ened means.  "  You  mean  it  costs  such  a  great 
deal." 

"  It  costs  a  great  deal  more  than  you  think,"  he 
said,  shifting  about  discontentedly  in  his  chair. 


146  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Then  I  told  him  that  my  mother  had  some 
jewels.  "  I  am  sure  that  when  she  sees  I  am  in 
earnest,  when  I  have  got  my  B.  A.,  she  will  be 
willing  I  should  use  the  jewels " 

"  It's  a  dog's  life,"  he  said,  "  for  a  woman." 

I  gathered  my  precious  papers  together.  '  You 
think  I  shall  mind  the  hard  work.  But  I  shan't." 

"  It  isn't  the  hard  work,"  he  said,  "  though  it's 

not  easy  for  a  man.  For  a  woman "  he  left 

the  woman  medical-student  hanging  over  the  abyss. 

For  all  my  questions  I  could  not  bring  him  to 
the  point  of  saying  what  these  bugbears  were. 

He  was  plainly  tired  of  the  subject. 

My  first  disappointment  had  yielded  to  a  spirit- 
less catechism  of  how  this  and  how  that. 

My  persistent  canvass  of  the  matter  brought  him 
nearer  a  manifestation  of  ill-temper  than  I  had 
ever  seen  in  him. 

There  was  a  great  deal,  he  said,  that  he  couldn't 
talk  about  to  a  girl  of  eighteen.  But  had  I  or 
anybody  else  ever  heard  of  a  man  who  was  a  doc- 
tor himself  wanting  his  sister,  or  his  daughter  to 
study  medicine  ?  He  had  never  known  one.  Not 
one. 

I  confessed  I  couldn't  think  why  that  was,  ex- 


MY    SECRET  147 

cept  that  nobody  belonging  to  a  girl  ever  wanted 
her  to  do  anything,  except — I  stopped  short  and 
then  hurried  on.  ..."  But  after  all,  you  know 
that  women  do  go  through  the  medical  schools 
and  come  out  all  right." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  They've  lost  something. 
Though  I  admit  most  of  the  women  you  mean, 
never  had  the  thing  I  mean." 

I  said  I  didn't  understand. 

"Well,  you  ought  to.  You've  got  it."  He 
looked  at  me  with  an  odd  expression  and  asked 
how  long  I'd  had  this  notion  in  my  head.  I  said 
a  year.  "  All  this  time !  You've  been  full  of  this 
ever  since  I  was  here  last!  " 

I  lied.  I  said  I  had  thought  of  absolutely  noth- 
ing else  all  that  time.  He  stood  up  ...  but  I 
still  sat  there  wondering  what  had  made  me  tell 
him  that  lie. 

1  You  won't  go,"  I  said,  "  without  seeing  my 
mother." 

To-day — he  hadn't  time. 

I  went  down  with  him  as  usual  to  the  front 
door,  weeping  inwardly,  yet  hoping,  praying,  that 
before  the  door  closed  he  would  say  something 
that  would  help — something  kind. 


148  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

He  often  said  the  best  things  of  all  just  as  he 
was  going — as  though  he  had  not  dared  to  be 
half  so  interesting,  or  a  tenth  so  kind,  but  in  the 
very  act  of  making  his  escape. 

To-day  he  put  on  his  covert  coat  in  a  moody 
silence.  Still  silent,  he  took  his  hat. 

I  stood  with  the  door-knob  in  my  hand.  "  You 
think,  then,  even  if  Aunt  Josephine  helped " 

"Who  is  Aunt  Josephine?" 

"  My  father's  step-sister.     She  is  well  off." 

Aunt  Josephine's  riches  made  no  impression 
upon  him.  He  was  going  away  a  different  man 
from  the  one  who  had  come  in  and  pushed  away 
my  papers,  to  sit  beside  me  and  to  take  my 
hand.  He  pulled  his  stick  out  of  the  umbrella- 
stand. 

"  You  feel  sure  I  couldn't?  "  I  pleaded  at  the 
door. 

"  I  feel  sure  you  could  do  something  better." 

He  was  out  on  the  step.  "  Good-bye,"  he  said, 
with  the  look  that  hurt  me,  so  tired — disappointed. 

He  had  come  for  peace — for  my  mother's 
tranquil  spirit  to  bring  rest  to  his  tired  mind. 
And  all  he  had  found  here  was  my  mother's 
'daughter  fretting  to  be  out  in  the  fray!  I  had 


MY    SECRET  149 

not  even  listened.  I  had  interrupted  and  pulled 
away  my  hand. 

After  I  shut  the  door,  I  opened  it  again,  and 
called  out:  "Oh,  what  was  it  you  were  going  to 
tell  me?" 

"  It  wouldn't  interest  you,"  he  said,  without 
even  turning  round. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   YACHTING   PARTY 

I  HAD  to  make  use  of  Eric's  old  plea,  "  pressure 
of  work,"  to  account  for  his  going  away  without 
seeing  my  mother. 

I  watched  the  clock  that  next  afternoon  in  a 
state  of  fever.  Would  he  come  again  at  three, 
so  that  we  might  talk  alone?  No.  The  tortur- 
ing minute-hand  felt  its  way  slowly  round  the 
clock-face,  its  finger,  like  a  surgeon's  on  my  heart, 
pressing  steadily,  for  all  my  flinching,  to  verify 
the  seat  and  the  extent  of  pain. 

Four  o'clock.  Five.  Half-past.  No  hope 
now  of  his  coming,  I  told  myself,  as  those  do  who 
cannot  give  up  hope. 

My  mother  questioned  me.  What  had  Mr. 
Annan  said  the  day  before?  Had  he,  then,  come 
so  early  for  "  nothing  in  particular  "  ?  I  said  that 
I  supposed  he  had  come  early  because  he  found 
he  could  not  come  late. 

About  six  o'clock,  as  I  was  counting  out  some 
drops  for  my  mother,  a  ring  at  the  front  door 
made  me  start  and  spill  the  liquid  on  the  table. 

150 


THE   YACHTING    PARTY       151 

He  had  relented!  He  was  coming  to  say  the 
things  I  had  been  so  mad  as  to  prevent  his  saying 
yesterday.  We  listened.  My  heart  fell  down  as 
a  woman's  voice  came  up.  Lady  Helmstone! 
Wanting  to  see  my  mother  "  very  particularly." 
We  wondered,  while  the  maid  went  down  to 
bring  her,  what  the  errand  might  be  which  could 
not  be  entrusted  to  Bettina.  For,  wonderful  to 
say,  Bettina  was  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  a  real 
dinner-party  that  night  at  the  Hall.  Hermione 
had  written  from  London,  begging  that  Betty 
might  come  and  hear  all  about  the  yachting  party. 
This  was  not  the  first  we  had  heard  of  the  proj- 
ect. It  had  been  introduced  in  a  way  never  to  be 
forgotten.  We  had  counted  on  hearing  from  the 
Helmstones  all  the  thrilling  details  about  the  Coro- 
nation which  was  fixed  for  the  coming  June.  We 
felt  ourselves  sensibly  closer  to  the  august  event 
through  our  acquaintance  with  the  Helmstones. 
Lesser  folk  than  they  might  hope  to  see  the  great 
Procession  going  to  the  Abbey — King  and  Queen 
in  the  golden  Coach  of  State,  our  particular  friends 
the  little  Princes  and  the  young  Princess  in  yet  an- 
other shining  chariot,  followed  by  the  foreign  Po- 
tentates, the  State  officials,  and  by  our  Peer  of  the 


152  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Realm  with  all  his  brother  Lords  and  Barons  in 
scarlet  and  ermine;  and  the  flower  of  the  British 
Army,  a  glancing,  flaming  glory  in  the  rear. 

The  highly  fortunate  might  see  this  Greatest 
Pageant  of  the  Age  on  its  return  from  the  Abbey, 
when  the  Sovereigns  would  be  wearing  their  crowns 
and  their  Coronation  robes. 

But  the  Helmstones  1  They  would  actually  see 
the  anointing  and  the  crowning  from  their  High 
Seats  in  the  Abbey.  Even  a  girl  like  Hermione 
would  be  asked  to  the  State  Ball. 

Never  before  had  we  realised  so  clearly  the  ad- 
vantages of  being  a  Peer. 

We  thought  the  Helmstones  very  modest  not 
to  be  talking  continually  about  the  Coronation. 
While  we  waited,  impatient  to  hear  more  on  the 
great  theme,  they  had  introduced  the  subject  of 
the  yachting  trip.  I  remembered  this  while  Lady 
Helmstone  was  coming  up  the  stair — I  remem- 
bered our  bewilderment  at  learning  that  they 
hoped  to  sail  "  about  Easter,"  and  to  be  cruising 
in  the  JEgezn  at  the  end  of  June. 

They  had  forgotten  the  Coronation! 

Then  the  shock  of  hearing  Lord  Helmstone 
thank  God  that  he  would  "be  well  out  of  it." 


THE    YACHTING    PARTY       153 

London,  he  said,  would  be  intolerable  this  season. 
He  had  let  the  house  in  Grosvenor  Square  "  at  a 
good  round  Coronation  figure  "  to  a  new-made 
law-lord — "  sort  of  chap  who'll  revel  in  it  all." 
Many  of  the  greatest  houses  in  London  were  to  be 
let  to  strangers. 

The  yachting  trip  was  one  of  many  arranged 
that  people  might  escape  "  the  Coronation  fuss." 

According  to  my  mother,  Lord  Helmstone  and 
his  like  showed  a  kind  of  treason  to  the  country 
in  not  doing  their  share  to  make  the  symbolic  act 
of  Coronation  a  public  testimony  to  English  de- 
votion to  the  Monarchy.  What  would  become  of 
the  significance  of  the  occasion  if  the  aristocracy 
(upholders  of  that  order  typified  by  the  King) 
Heserted  the  King  on  a  day  when  the  eyes  of  the 
world  would  be  upon  the  English  throne. 

Oh,  it  was  pitiable!  this  leaving  the  great  in- 
herited task  to  the  upstart  rich.  Lord  Helm- 
stone's  act  showed  blacker  in  the  light  of  remem- 
bered honour  done  him  both  by  the  present  King 
and  by  his  father.  We  knew  Lord  Helmstone 
had  liked  the  late  King  best.  Yet  even  of  him 
we  had  heard  this  unworthy  subject  speak  with 
something  less  than  reverence.  With  bated  breath 


154  MY    LITTLE    SISTER 

Bettina  and  I  had  reported  these  lapses,  as  well 
as  the  late  ironic  reference  to  "  the  bourgeois 
standards  of  the  present  Court."  Our  mother 
said  that  only  meant  that  the  life  of  the  King  and 
Queen  was  a  model  for  their  people.  "  But  Lord 
Helmstone  laughed,"  we  persisted — "  they  all 
laughed." 

We  saw  we  were  wrong  to  dwell  upon  so  grave 
a  lapse.  Lord  Helmstone's  taste  was  question- 
able, we  heard.  "  He  does  not  scorn  the  distinc- 
tions His  Majesty  confers."  There  were  people 
— my  mother  was  sorry  if  Lord  Helmstone  was 
one — who  thought  it  superior  to  smile  at  the 
Fount  of  Honour. 

Smiling  at  Founts  was  one  thing.  But  to  go 
a-yachting  when  you  might  help  to  crown  the 
King  of  England,  Emperor  of  India,  Defender  of 
the  Faith.  .  .  .  ! 

Bettina  and  I  had  agreed  privately  that  the 
reason  she  was  allowed  the  unheard-of  licence  of 
dining  out  alone  was  that  she  might  embrace  this 
final  opportunity  of  probing  the  mystery  before 
the  Helmstones  vanished.  They  had  come  down 
from  London  for  their  last  week-end  before  going 
to  Marseilles  to  join  the  Nautch  Girl. 


THE   YACHTING    PARTY       155 

And  now  Lady  Helmstone  was  passing  our  bed- 
room, where  Bettina  on  the  other  side  of  the  closed 
door  sat  working  feverishly  to  finish  putting  some 
fresh  lace  on  the  gown  she  was  to  wear  at  din- 
ner. 

Lady  Helmstone  came  into  my  mother's  room, 
very  smart  and  smiling,  and  without  preamble 
proposed  to  take  Bettina  along  as  one  of  her 
party.  Equally  without  hesitation  my  mother  said 
the  idea  was  quite  impracticable. 

Lady  Helmstone  was  a  person  accustomed  to 
having  her  own  way.  "  You  cannot  expect,"  she 
said,  "  you  cannot  want  to  keep  your  girls  at 
home  for  ever." 

"  N-no,"  my  mother  agreed,  with  that  old  look 
of  shrinking.  But  Bettina  was  far  too  young 

A  niece  of  Lord  Helmstone's,  just  Bettina's 
age,  was  to  be  of  the  party. 

Ah,  well,  Bettina  was  different.  Bettina  was 
the  sort  of  child  who  had  never  been  able  to  face 
the  idea  of  a  single  night  away  from  home.  And 
this  was  a  question  of  a  cruise  of — how  many 
weeks? 

"  Six  months,"  said  Lady  Helmstone  cheerfully. 

My  mother  stared.     Lady  Helmstone  could  not 


156  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

have  meant  the  proposal  seriously — "  Bettina 
would  die  of  home-sickness." 

Lady  Helmstone  ventured  to  think  not.  As  I 
have  said,  she  was  ill-accustomed  to  seeing  her 
invitations  set  aside.  She  spoke  of  Hermione's 
disappointment  .  .  .  they  were  all  so  fond  of 
Bettina.  She  should  have  every  care. 

My  mother  made  her  acknowledgments — the 
suggestion  was  most  kind;  most  hospitably  meant. 
But  Lady  Helmstone  had  only  to  put  it  to  Bettina. 
She  would  soon  see. 

Lady  Helmstone  smiled.  "  I  think  you  will 
find  Bettina  would  like  to  come  with  us." 

I  was  annoyed  at  her  way  of  saying  that,  as  if 
she  knew  Bettina  better  than  we.  I  went  into 
the  next  room,  and  got  out  my  school-books.  I 
left  the  door  open  in  case  my  mother  should  need 
me,  and  I  heard  them  talking  about  "  daughters." 

There  was  much  to  be  said,  Lady  Helmstone 
thought,  for  the  way  they  did  things  in  France. 
My  mother  preferred  the  English  way. 

"  And  yet  you  will  not  take  it,"  said  the  other, 
with  that  suavity  that  allowed  her  to  be  im- 
pertinent without  seeming  so.  "I  don't  think — > 
living  as  you  do — you  quite  realise  the  trouble 


THE   YACHTING   PARTY       157 

mothers  take  to  give  their  girls  the  sort  of  oppor- 
tunity you  are  refusing."  There  were  changes 
— u  great  and  radical  changes,"  she  said — changes 
which  my  mother,  leading  this  life  of  the  re- 
ligieuse,  was  possibly  not  aware  of. 

My  mother  deprecated  as  much  as  she  had 
heard  of  these  changes. 

"  Ah,  but,  necessary — a  question  of  supply  and 
demand.  You  can  afford  to  disregard  them  only 
if  you  do  not  expect  your  daughters  to  marry." 

My  mother  said  stiffly  that  she  saw  no  reason 
to  suppose  her  daughters  would  not  marry — "  all 
in  good  time."  They  were  very  young,  Bettina  a 
child 

"  She  is  very  little  younger  than  I  was  when  I 
married;  or  than  you  were  yourself,  if  I  may 
hazard  a  guess."  My  mother  was  silent.  She 
was  still  silent  when  Lady  Helmstone  laid  down 
the  law  that  a  girl's  best  "  opportunities  "  came 
before  she  was  twenty.  In  these  days  of  Gaiety 
girls  and  American  heiresses  the  whole  question 
had  grown  incomparably  more  difficult.  "  Mothers 
with  a  sense  of  family  duty — I  may  say  of 
patriotism — have  to  think  seriously  about  these 
things."  She  herself,  having  married  off  three 


158  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

daughters  and  two  nieces,  might  be  considered 
something  of  an  expert.  Indeed,  she  was  so  re- 
garded. She  had  advised  hundreds.  There  was 
her  cousin  Mrs.  Monmouth.  The  Monmouths 
were  not  at  all  well  off.  "  I  used  to  come  across 
Rosamund  trailing  her  three  girls  about  Lon- 
don. .  .  .  Three!  Conceive  the  indiscretion! — 
only  the  young  one  really  caring  about  balls — the 
other  two  going  stolidly  through  with  it,  season 
after  season.  The  mother,  every  year  more  worn, 
more  haggard — I  changed  all  that!  One  chap- 
eron will  do  for  a  dozen.  A  group  of  us  took 
turns.  'Send  the  youngest  to  dance,'  I  said; 
4  and  never  more  than  two  at  a  time.'  After  all, 
very  little  is  done  at  balls ! "  She  spoke  impa- 
tiently, in  a  brisk,  business-like  tone.  "  As  a  rule, 
only  boys  and  ineligibles  care  about  dancing.  The 
thing  for  people  in  Rosamund's  position  to  do — I 
told  my  cousin,  the  thing  to  do  was  to  spend  Au- 
gust in  London." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Do  people  not  leave  London  in  August  now- 
adays? "  my  mother  said,  in  a  tone  of  perfunctory 
politeness. 

"  All  the  other  women  leave/'  said  Lady  Helm- 


THE   YACHTING    PARTY       159 

stone,  with  a  ruse  significance.  "  The  field  is 
clear.  There  are  always  men  in  London  when  the 
town  is  supposed  to  be  empty.  Often  Parliament 
is  still  sitting.  Men  have  nowhere  to  go.  They 
accept  with  gratitude  in  August  an  invitation  they 
wouldn't  even  trouble  to  answer  in  June.  August 
is  the  time.  I  made  Rosamund  Monmouth  see  it. 
I  made  her  give  her  common,  or  garden,  cook  a 
holiday.  I  made  her  engage  a  chef — cordon  bleu. 
'  You  must  give  better  dinners  than  men  get  at 
their  clubs.'  She  did." 

There  was  another  significant  pause. 

"  The  least  attractive  of  the  Monmouth  girls 
married  the  rising  young  barrister  Harvey  that 
very  autumn.  We  called  him  *  Harvest.'  '  Her 
laugh  rang  lonely  in  the  quiet  room.  "  The  other 
is  engaged  to  the  member  for  Durdan.  He  will 
be  in  the  Cabinet  when  our  side  comes  in.  Both 
those  girls  would  be  manoeuvring  for  partners  at 
balls  still,  and  their  mother  would  be  in  her  grave, 
but  for  .  .  ." 

The  interview  ended  stiffly. 

The  only  part  of  my  mother's  share  in  it  that  I 
regretted  was  her  suggesting  that  Lady  Helm- 
stone  should  not,  after  all,  let  Bettina  know  there 


160  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

had  been  any  question  of  her  going.  "  The  child 
is  already  disturbed  enough  at  the  prospect  of 
losing  Hermione." 

When  Lady  Helmstone  was  gone,  my  mother 
sat  up  with  flushed  cheeks,  and  said:  "If  Betty 
never  went  anywhere,  I  should  not  want  her  to  go 
away  in  the  care  of  a  woman  like  that." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  EMERALD  PENDANT 

I  PUT  the  finishing  touches  to  Bettina's  dress  in 
our  mother's  room  that  night,  so  that  the  invalid 
might  have  the  pleasure  of  lying  there  and  looking 
at  Betty,  all  white  and  golden  in  the  candle-light 

While  I  tied  her  sash  I  noticed  her  frowning  at 
herself  in  the  glass. 

"  I  look  dreadfully  missish,"  she  said. 

When  I  protested,  she  said:  "Worse,  then! 
Like  a  charity  child  at  a  school-treat !  " 

We  were  amazed.  My  mother  asked  where 
she  had  got  such  ideas.  I  heard  Hermione  be- 
hind Betty's  voice. 

She  turned  round  and  faced  our  mother  with 
her  most  beguiling  air.  "  It's  going  to  be  mine 
some  day  .  .  .  lend  me  the  pearl  and  emerald 
pendant."  That  my  mother  should  be  surprised 
at  the  suggestion,  seemed  only  natural.  But  I 
could  not  see  why  she  should  be  so  annoyed.  I, 
too,  begged  her  to  let  Bettina  wear  the  pendant. 
After  all,  Bettina  was  in  her  seventeenth  year  .  .  . 
and  this  was  a  real  party. 

161 


162  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  A  girl  of  sixteen  wanting  to  wear  a  thing  like 
that!" 

Bettina  frowned.  How  old  must  she  be  before 
she  could  wear  the  pendant? 

My  mother  wouldn't  say.  .  .  . 

After  Bettina  had  gone,  I  asked  about  the  mar- 
ket value  of  jewels. 

My  mother  seemed  to  think  the  inquiry  very  odd 
and  somehow  offensive.  I  asked  if  she  thought 
the  big  diamond  star  was  worth  as  much  as 
£600. 

She  said  I  appeared  to  have  a  very  sordid  way 
of  looking  at  things  whose  real  value  was  that 
they  were  symbolic  of  something  beyond  price. 

I  said  I  knew  that.  But  did  she  not  think  that 
for  some  great  and  important  end,  my  father 
would  have  been  the  first  to  say,  let  the  jewels  be 
sold? 

My  mother  put  her  hand  up  to  her  eyes.  I 
blew  out  one  candle  and  set  a  shield  before  the 
other. 

She  spoke  my  name  and  I  started — the  voice 
sounded  odd.  I  went  back  to  the  bedside.  "  Are 
you  ill  ?  "  I  said.  She  shook  her  head  and  mo- 
tioned me  to  sit  down. 


THE   EMERALD    PENDANT     163 

Then  she  told  me.  We  were  living  on  the 
proceeds  of  the  diamond  star. 

The  pendant  had  been  sold  last  summer. 
There  was  nothing  more  worth  selling  except  the 
furniture,  and  possibly  a  few  prints. 

We  owed  Lord  Helmstone  six  months'  rent. 

I  met  the  shock  with  the  help  of  my  secret.  I 
steadied  myself  against  the  thought  that,  at  the 
worst,  I  would  find  the  means  (through  Aunt 
Josephine  or  somebody)  for  qualifying  myself  to 
support  my  mother  and  sister.  I  saw  myself,  at 
the  worst,  a  humble  soldier  enlisting  in  that  army 
where  Eric  held  command.  I,  too,  marching  with 
that  high  companionship  .  .  .  marching  to  the 
world's  relief. 

In  the  midst  of  telling  how  I  was  forging  ahead 
with  my  London  University  Tutorial  Correspond- 
ence, and  to  what  the  year's  successful  work  was 
leading,  I  kept  thinking  that,  after  all,  this  ill  wind 
might  help  to  blow  away  the  cloud  that  Eric's  dis- 
approval had  brought  lowering  over  the  present 
and  obscuring  all  the  future.  My  mother  will  be 
proud  of  me,  I  thought.  She  will  even  be  a  little 
touched;  and  then,  for  all  the  light  was  so  dim,  I 
saw  her  face  of  horror ! 


i64  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

It  was  a  mad  idea.  Her  daughter  a  "  female 
doctor"  !  Never! 

"  Not — not  female  doctor,"  I  protested.  "  That 
does  sound " 

''  Well,  you  see  for  yourself  how  the  very  sound 
of  it " 

I  assured  her  that  I  didn't  dislike  the  sound  of 
"  medical  woman."  But  there  was  no  necessity 
to  emphasise  "  woman  "  at  all;  the  only  thing  im- 
portant was  whether  the  person  was  qualified  to 
treat  the  sick.  People  did  not  feel  they  had  to 
say  male  doctor.  "  Doctor  is  enough." 

I  was  told  that  the  reason  no  one  said  male 
doctor  was  because  "  doctor "  was  male,  and 
everyone  understood  that. 

I  left  the  point,  and  I  pleaded  my  main  cause 
with  all  my  might.  I  hadn't  any  accomplishments 
— no  music,  nothing.  "  I'm  not  the  decorative 
one,  and  I  like  '  doing  things  ' ;  plain,  everyday 
things."  There  had  to  be  people  like  that. 

It  was  all  no  use. 

***** 

That  confession  of  mine,  more  than  hers  about 
the  jewels,  goaded  my  mother  into  taking  a  step 
which  even  we,  blind  as  we  were,  felt  to  be  epoch- 
making  in  our  history. 


THE   EMERALD    PENDANT     165 

That  same  evening  she  began  to  talk  about  Aunt 
Josephine — to  excuse  her.  Mrs.  Harborough  had 
been  so  wrapped  up  in  her  brilliant  young  step- 
brother (and  Aunt  Josephine  would  never  allow 
the  "  step  ")  that  any  other  person's  coming  in 
must  inevitably  have  been  resented.  "  She  idol- 
ised your  father."  A  woman  of  high  character. 
Given  to  good  works.  Busied  about  the  redemp- 
tion of  long-shoremen  and  about  country  treats  for 
jam-factory  girls.  Knee-deep  in  philanthropy. 
And  childless.  She  could  not,  especially  now  after 
that  old  first  anger  had  long  cooled,  she  could  not 
be  indifferent  to  the  fate  of  her  brother's  children. 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  writing  to  her?  "  I  said. 
She  explained  that  for  her  to  address  Mrs.  Har- 
borough was,  under  the  circumstances,  hardly  pos- 
sible. But  there  was  no  reason  in  the  world  why 
I  should  not. 

I  felt  there  were  reasons,  but  I  could  not  think 
what  they  were.  My  mother,  meanwhile,  grew 
almost  cheerful,  outlining  the  sort  of  thing  I  might 
say.  No  requests  in  this  first  communication.  A 
letter,  merely — if  it  found  her  so  inclined — merely 
to  open  a  long-closed  door. 

I  did  not  like  my  task.  I  decided  I  would  put 
it  off  till  morning,  though  I  knew  that  at  any  time 


i66  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  should  find  it  easier  to  write:  "  Please  lend  me 
£1,000  for  a  course  of  study,"  than  write  such  a 
letter  as  my  mother  had  dictated. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Betty  came  back  from  her  dinner-party  in  great 
excitement.  Ranny  Dallas  had  motored  over 
from  Dartmoor  that  very  day — with  a  man  friend. 
They  had  been  at  the  Helmstones'  to  tea. 

I  wondered,  dully,  that  Lady  Helmstone  had 
said  nothing  whatever  about  Ranny  during  her 
visit.  She  must  have  just  parted  from  him.  An- 
other curious  thing  was  that  Ranny  had  not  stayed 
for  the  dinner-party.  He  and  his  friend  were  at 
the  inn. 

"  What  in  the  world  do  you  think  that  means?  " 
I  asked  Bettina,  glad  enough  to  escape  from  my 
own  thoughts. 

She  was  smiling.  "  I  think  it  is  very  natu- 
ral." 

And  why  was  it  natural  for  a  luxurious  young 
man  to  put  up  with  tough  mutton  and  watery 
potatoes  at  a  village  inn,  when  he  and  any  friend 
of  his  were  certain  of  a  welcome,  and  the  best 
possible  dinner,  in  a  house  like  the  Helmstones'? 

Betty  merely  continued  to  smile  in  that  beatific, 


THE   EMERALD    PENDANT     167 

but  somewhat  foolish  fashion.  I  said,  rather 
more  to  make  her  speak  than  for  any  soberer  rea- 
son, "  Perhaps  he  isn't  so  sure  of  his  welcome"; 
and  then  in  a  flash  I  saw  quite  clearly  something 
I  had  been  blind  to  till  that  instant.  For  all  the 
liking  the  Helmstones  felt  for  Betty  they  may 
not  have  liked  being  undeceived  about  Ranny's 
supposed  devotion  to  Hermione.  That  this  idea 
had  never  occurred  to  me  before  showed  me 
stupid,  I  saw,  as  well  as  self-absorbed.  But  the 
idea  would  not  have  occurred  to  me  at  all,  I  think, 
but  for  some  of  the  things  Lady  Helmstone  had 
said  to  my  mother  that  afternoon. 

Betty  was  asking  me  with  a  superior  air,  if  I 
couldn't  understand  that  Ranny  would  "  prefer  to 
talk  things  over  "  before  meeting  her  at  a  dinner- 
party "  with  everybody  looking  on."  She  re- 
minded me  a  little  tremulously  that  it  would  be 
their  very  first  meeting  "since  .  .  ."  There  was  a 
moment  when  I  thought  she  was  going  to  cry. 
And  then,  without  any  sense  of  transition,  I  won- 
dered how  anybody  in  the  world  could  be  as  happy 
as  Betty  looked. 

The  next  morning,  still  in  a  mood  of  the  deep- 


i68  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

est  dejection,  I  dated  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  be- 
gan: "  My  dear  Aunt  Josephine." 

I  looked  at  the  words  for  full  five  minutes,  with 
a  feeling  of  intense  unwillingness  to  set  down  an- 
other syllable.  And  then  I  yielded  to  the  im- 
pulse which  made  certain  other  words  so  easy,  so 
delicious  to  say  or  trace.  I  took  a  fresh  sheet. 
Before  I  knew,  I  had  written:  "Dear  Mr.  An- 
nan." 

Well,  why  not?  Was  it  not  better  to  write  to 
him,  rather  than  face  another  afternoon  like  yes- 
terday? My  mother  wondering,  suspicious;  my 
own  eyes  flying  back  and  forth  like  distracted 
shuttles  from  window  to  clock — from  clock  to 
window,  hour  after  hour. 

DEAR  MR.  ANNAN, — I  have  told  my  mother.  She 
feels  as  you  do.  She  does  not  like  my  idea.  So  I  have 
agreed  for  the  present  not  to  think  about  it  any  more. 

I  was  his  "  sincerely,"  and  I  sent  the  note  by  one 
of  the  little  Klauses. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

RANNY 

I  IMAGINED  that  day  I  should  never  again  have  to 
live  through  a  time  of  such  suspense. 

Waiting,  till  I  could  get  away  without  being 
noticed,  to  carry  my  note  to  Kleiner  Klaus's. 

Waiting,  for  the  Klaus's  boy  to  come  home. 

Waiting,  while  his  mother  brushed  his  clothes 
and  cuffed  him.  Waiting,  while  he  recovered  his 
spirits.  Waiting,  while  slowly,  slowly,  his  mind 
took  in  the  particulars  of  his  errand,  and  the  most 
particular  part  of  it,  in  his  eyes — the  penny  he 
should  have  when  he  brought  me  back  an  answer. 

And  the  long  hours  of  that  afternoon  waiting 
for  the  answer,  or  even  for  the  errand-boy  to  come 
back.  When  I  was  not  looking  out  of  the  window 
my  mind  was  still  so  bent  on  listening  for  one 
particular  footstep  on  the  brick  walk,  and  at  the 
door  his  voice — the  only  voice  in  the  world  with 
meaning  in  it — that  scarcely  any  impression  was 
made  on  me  by  other  steps  and  other  voices.  I 
heard  them,  subconsciously,  to  dismiss  them;  for 
everything  was  irrelevance  that  wasn't  Eric. 

169 


170  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

But  my  mother  interrupted  my  mechanical  read- 
ing aloud.  "  Who,"  (with  her  air  of  listening  to 
sounds  beyond  my  ken)  "  who  can  all  those  people 
be?" 

There  was  Bettina  in  the  passage  making  fran- 
tic signs  that  I  was  to  hurry  out  and  speak  to  her. 
And  voices  of  men  and  women  came  up  from  the 
open  door.  I  recognised  Lord  Helmstone's.  I 
heard  him  asking  the  maid  if  Mr.  Annan  were 
here. 

"No?  That's  very  odd,"  said  Hermione  in 
her  sceptical  way —  "  Perhaps  he's  come  in 
without  your  knowing.  Will  you  just  find 
out?" 

My  mother,  too,  had  heard  Lord  Helmstone's 
cheerful  bass,  suggesting  that  his  party  might  take 
shelter  here.  I  had  not  noticed  before  the  slight 
rain  falling.  "  Go  and  ask  him  to  come  upstairs," 
my  mother  said.  And  lower:  "  I  don't  want  him 
to  take  it  amiss."  I  saw  she  was  thinking  of  her 
refusal  to  let  Betty  go  on  the  yacht. 

Betty  was  waiting  for  me  in  ambush  near  the 
head  of  the  stair:  "  You  must  come  down  and  help 
me.  Ranny  is  there,  too." 

I  was  bewildered  at  finding  so  many  at  the 


RANNY  171 

door.  For  besides  Lord  Helmstone  and  Her- 
mione,  there  was  Lady  Barbara,  and  Ranny  Dallas 
and  his  friend — a  cheerful,  talkative,  red-haired 
man  they  called  Courtney. 

The  Helmstones  were  still  discussing  whether 
they  should  come  in.  Hermione  said  it  was  only 
a  slight  sprinkle,  and  her  mother  was  expecting 
them  back  to  tea.  Lady  Barbara,  with  engaging 
simplicity,  insisted  there  was  no  object  in  going 
back  without  Mr.  Annan. 

I  saw  at  once  that  Ranny  looked  different. 
Just  in  what  way,  or  to  what  extent,  I  could  not  at 
first  have  said.  A  very  little  thinner,  too  little  to 
account  for  the  change  I  was  dimly  conscious  of. 
And  when  he  first  came  in,  he  came  with  some 
nonsense,  and  that  pleasant  laugh,  that  always 
"  started  things  "  in  an  easy  harmonious  key. 

"  We've  descended  on  you,"  Lord  Helmstone 
said,  "  like  a  posse  of  detectives.  Sleuth-hounds 
on  that  fella  Annan's  track.  We've  our  instruc- 
tions to  bag  him  and  carry  him  home  to  tea." 

Bettina  (oh,  I  could  have  beaten  her  for  that!) 
said  Mr.  Annan  would  very  probably  come  in  pres- 
ently. And  she  led  the  way  into  the  drawing- 
room,  while  I  took  Lord  Helmstone  upstairs.  By 


172  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

the  time  I  came  down  again  Bettina  had  ordered 
tea. 

Hermione  turned  round  as  I  came  in.  "  What 
have  you  done  with  my  father !  Now  father's  dis- 
appeared! " — as  if  she  had  only  just  grasped  the 
fact.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you,"  she  said  to  Ranny, 
"  Buncombe  is  a  place  where  if  a  man  goes  in,  he 
doesn't  come  out?  " 

Betty  and  I  gave  them  tea. 

I  lashed  myself  up  to  being  almost  talkative.  I 
am  sure  they  never  guessed  the  effort  I  was  mak- 
ing. I  had  not  taken  my  usual  place  for  pour- 
ing out  tea.  I  sat  where  I  could  see  the  gate. 
My  mind  and  eyes  were  so  on  the  watch  for  Eric 
I  should  not  have  noticed  Ranny  much,  but  for 
an  odd  new  feeling  of  comradeship  that  sprang 
up,  I  cannot  tell  how,  as  the  minutes  went  by  and 
still  brought  no  sign  of  Eric.  Not  even  a  note  in 
answer  to  mine. 

As  tea  went  on,  and  I  grew  more  miserable,  I 
noticed  that  Ranny  flagged,  too.  After  saying 
something  Ranny-ish  enough,  he  would  fall  into 
quiet,  looking  straight  in  front  of  him  as  though 
we  none  of  us  were  there.  As  though  even  Bet- 
tina were  not  there.  Bettina's  eyes  kept  turning 


RANNY  173 

his  way.  But  Ranny  never  once  looked  at  her. 
And  the  more  I  looked  at  him,  the  more  I  felt  he 
was  changed.  He  would  rouse  himself  abruptly 
out  of  that  new  stillness  and  take  part  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  talk.  His  very  laugh,  that  I  have 
spoken  of  as  so  reassuring — his  laugh  most  of  all 
gave  me  a  sense  of  uneasiness.  It  was  a  kind  of 
laughter  that  seemed  just  a  tribute  to  other 
people's  light-heartedness  and,  more  than  anything 
about  him,  a  betrayal  of  his  own  bankruptcy  in 
cheer. 

When  he  fell  silent  again,  and  in  a  way  "  out  of 
the  running,"  when  that  blindness  came  into  his 
face,  Ranny  Dallas  looks  as  I  feel,  I  said  to  my- 
self. And  then  I  talked  the  more  and  smiled  at 
everybody  in  a  way  probably  more  imbecile  than 
pleasing. 

I  consoled  myself  with  thinking  neither  Ranny 
nor  I  were  being  much  noticed,  for  Hermione 
talked  very  fast,  and  rather  louder  than  usual,  to 
Bettina  and  to  the  other,  newer,  swain — one  of  the 
apparently  endless  supply  of  "  weak-ending  young 
men  "  as  Ranny  called  them. 

Under  cover  of  Hermlone's  gaiety,  I  managed 
to  ask  Bettina  what  was  the  matter  with  Ranny. 


174  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  whispered. 

I  saw  it  was  true.     Bettina  did  not  know. 

She  leaned  across  me  to  find  a  place  on  the 
crowded  table  for  her  teacup  and  the  low  voice  was 
earnest  enough:  "Find  out." 

The  rain  had  been  only  a  passing  shower. 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  sun  has  come  out — but  my  father 
hasn't!  Didn't  I  say,"  Hermione  laughed,  "no 
man  ever  knows  when  to  come  away  from  this 
place?"  Then  she  swept  us  all  into  the  garden. 
"  If  he  doesn't  come  soon  I  shall  throw  gravel  up 
at  the  window.  Isn't  it  this  window?  " 

Bettina  said  very  likely  Lord  Helmstone  was 
having  tea  upstairs  and  that  it  had  not  gone  up  till 
after  ours.  Ranny  and  I  left  the  new  young  man 
and  Bettina  trying  to  prevent  Hermione  from 
carrying  out  her  audacious  plan  and  apparently 
succeeding.  For  Lord  Helmstone  did  not  appear 
for  another  half-hour.  And  still  no  sign  of 
Eric. 

Ranny  asked  me  how  the  sunk  garden  was  com- 
ing on.  I  didn't  like  going  so  far  from  the  gate, 
but  Betty's  earnest  "  find  out "  was  ringing  in  my 
ears.  I  sent  a  searching  look  across  the  heath, 
and  then  Ranny  and  I  left  the  others  and  went 


RANNY  175 

down  to  the  rock-quadrangle  that  used  to  be  so 
tidily  affluent  in  stone-loving  mosses,  seedums  and 
suchlike.  The  weeds  were  fast  driving  the  more 
delicate  things  out  of  the  neglected  tangle.  For 
the  old  gardener  had  been  gone  a  year,  now,  and 
there  was  overmuch  for  a  jobbing  person  to  do  in 
a  day  or  two  a  week. 

I  apologised  for  the  poor  unkempt  place,  think- 
ing how  different  I  might  have  made  it,  but  for  the 
hours  I  spent  over  books.  And  would  Eric  have 
liked  me  better  if 

I  craned  my  neck,  uneasy  at  not  being  able  to 
see  the  gate  nor  any  part  of  the  bypath.  Only 
the  higher  reach  of  heath  road. 

Ranny  had  not  pretended  to  be  listening.  I 
don't  think  he  so  much  as  saw  how  changed  the 
garden  was.  We  talked  about  the  new  young 
man — "  awful  good  sort,"  according  to  Ranny. 
But  that  testimony,  too,  he  gave  in  an  absent- 
minded,  perfunctory  way. 

"  Can't  we  sit  down?"  he  said,  looking  blindly 
at  a  garden  seat  still  shining-wet. 

I  said  we'd  better  walk.  I  lead  him  back  near 
enough  the  house  to  see  if  the  others  had  waylaid 
Eric. 


176  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

No,  just  the  same  group  under  my  mother's 
window — Hermione  and  Babs  arguing  hotly  about 
something.  The  red-haired  young  man  aiming  at 
an  imaginary  golf-ball  with  the  crook-handle  of 
his  heavy  walking-stick,  and  swinging  it  violently 
over  his  shoulder,  that  Bettina  might  see  the  ap- 
proved position  of  feet  and  body  before,  and  af- 
ter, a  furious  drive.  Whether  Bettina  made  a 
practice  of  asking  for  this  information  I  can- 
not say.  But  every  man  who  came  our  way, 
young  or  old,  was  seized  with  an  uncontrollable 
desire  to  teach  Bettina  the  difference  between 
good  form  and  bad  form  at  the  game  of  golf. 

Ranny  had  been  walking  with  his  head  bent 
and  no  pretence  at  making  conversation.  When 
I  stopped,  he  looked  up  suddenly  and  caught  sight 
of  the  group.  He  wheeled  about,  and  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  house  and  his  face  averted  from, 
me  as  well. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  why  shouldn't  we  go 
and  meet  Annan? — warn  him — eh?  " 

My  heart  leapt  at  the  suggestion.  And 
yet.  .  .  .  "  Why  should  you  want  to  do  that?  "  I 
said  suspiciously. 

"  Oh,    well,    I    don't    care    where    we    go — 


RANNY  177 

only  .  .  ."     His  voice  sounded  so  queer  I   felt 
frightened. 

"  I  don't  think  I'll  go  back  to  them  just  yet,"  he 
managed  to  bring  out.     "  Do  you  mind?  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ANOTHER  GIRL 

WE  turned  off  through  the  shrubbery,  and  went 
out  by  the  side  gate  along  the  bypath  to  the  links. 

Ranny  walked  behind,  absolutely  silent,  till  he 
burst  out:  "  May  I  smoke?  " 

When  he  had  lit  a  cigarette,  I  glanced  back.  I 
thought  he  looked  a  shade  less  miserable.  I  could 
see  the  four  figures  standing  out  against  the  house, 
and  still  no  sign  anywhere  of  Eric. 

I  asked  Ranny  if  he  was  to  be  one  of  the  yacht- 
ing party. 

"Lord,  no!" 

Perhaps  they  had  not  asked  him.  Maybe  that 
was  it.  I  said  something  about  how  we  should 
miss  Hermione. 

"  Er — yes,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  you  will," 
and  I  noticed  his  voice  was  steadier. 

"  Don't  be  ungrateful,"  I  said.     "  So  will  you." 

"Me?" 

Then,  as  I  reproached  him,  he  said:  "  Oh,  yes; 
awfully  nice  people  the  Helmstones.  I  used  to  be 
rather  fond  of  Lady  Helmstone.  But  she's  a 

178 


ANOTHER    GIRL  179 

woman  who  doesn't  know  how  to  take  '  No.' 
That's  partly  why  I  came." 

I  looked  back  again:  "  Is  that  the  only  reason?  " 

"  Well,  she  kept  writing,  and  making  out,  in 
spite  of  what  I'd  said,  that  she  was  expecting  me 
to  join  them  at  Marseilles.  And  had  put  off 
somebody  else  who  wanted  to  go.  If  I  backed 
out — I  had  never  backed  in — I  would  be  breaking 
up  the  party  and  behaving  like  the  devil."  He 
spoke  more  ill-temperedly  than  I  had  ever  heard 
him. 

"How  will  it  end?"  I  asked. 

"  End?  I'm  hanged  if  I'll  go.  I've  told  her 
I  wouldn't,  from  the  beginning.  But  I  only  con- 
vinced her  yesterday." 

We  walked  on. 

"  They've  asked  Betty,"  I  said. 

"No!"  He  caught  me  up  and  walked  at  my 
side.  "  When  did  they  do  that?  " 

"  Yesterday  evening." 

"Is  Betty  going?  " 

"  No,"  I  said. 

And  very  sharp  on  that :  "  Why  not?  "  he  asked. 
"  Doesn't  she  want  to?  " 

"  She    doesn't  know   anything   about   it.     My 


i8o  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

mother  doesn't  want  her  to  go."  And  while  he 
fell  into  silence  again,  I  sent  my  eyes  about  the 
heath.  No  sign. 

Suddenly  I  remembered  Betty's  "  find  out."  I 
had  not  found  out.  I  hadn't  even  tried,  and  I 
realised  myself  for  a  monster  of  selfishness — 
thinking  Eric,  Eric,  and  nothing  but  Eric  the  live- 
long day. 

I  pulled  myself  together  and  asked  Ranny  what 
he  had  been  doing  since  Christmas. 

"  Since  New  Year's  Eve,  you  mean."  He 
frowned,  and  threw  away  a  cigarette  half-smoked, 
and  lit  another.  When  he  had  puffed  and 
frowned  a  little  more  he  said  he  had  been  going 
through  a  ghastly  experience  with  a  great  friend 
of  his.  "  Not  a  bad  chap  on  the  whole,"  he  said, 
in  a  hesitating,  almost  appealing  voice.  But  this 
not  bad  chap  had  "  got  himself  badly  bunkered." 
Ranny  hesitated,  and  then :  "  Yes,  I've  been  think- 
ing I'd  tell  you  about  it,  and  see  if — if  you  thought 
I've  advised  him  right.  .  .  ."  The  friend,  he  said, 
had  been  "  one  of  a  house  party  at  a  place  up  in 
Norfolk.  He'd  gone  for  the  fag  end  of  the  shoot- 
ing. Last  month  it  was.  Beastly  dull  people. 
Awful  good  shooting — as  a  rule.  But  the  weather 


ANOTHER    GIRL  181 

was  rotten.  All  shut  up  together  in  that  beastly 
dull  house.  Nothing  earthly  to  do,  except  rag, 
and — you  know  the  kind  of  thing." 

I  didn't  know  a  bit,  but  I  said  I  did. 

"  Well,  his  friend  had  nothing  to  do,  and  he  got 
it  into  his  head  that  the  girl  of  the  house  rather 
liked  him.  And  there  wasn't  another  blessed 
thing  to  do,  so — —  Oh,  well,  they  got  engaged." 

He  waited  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said  that 
when  his  friend  went  back  to  Aldershot  he  found 
"  he  wasn't  any  more  in  love  with  that  girl  than 
he  was  with  the  cat.  It  was  all  just  a  beastly 
mistake.  So  he  got  leave  and  went  home  to  think 
it  out.  Couldn't  think  it  out.  Felt  he'd  better  go 

and  talk  it  over  with  somebody "  Ranny 

hesitated  again.  "  Awful  hole  to  be  in,  isn't 
it?" 

I  agreed  it  must  have  been  very  dreadful  for 
his  friend  to  have  to  tell  the  girl  he'd  made  a  mis- 
take. 

"Oh,  but  he  couldn't  do  that!"  With  a 
shocked  look,  Ranny  stopped  dead  for  a  second. 
Then,  as  he  went  on,  he  said  that  he  had  told  his 
friend  of  course  he'd  have  to  go  through  with  it. 

"  You  don't  mean,"  I  said,  "  that  when  he  was 


182  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

feeling  like  that  you  think  he  ought  to  let  the  poor 
girl  marry  him !  " 

He  said  I  didn't  see  the  point.  It  would  prob- 
ably spoil  the  girl's  life  if  his  friend  drew  back. 

I  said  he  would  spoil  her  life  if  he  didn't  draw 
back. 

Ranny  looked  merely  bewildered.  "  Oh  .  .  . 
but  ..."  then  he  caught  hold  of  a  mainstay,  "  my 
friend — he  isn't  a  cad  you  know.  A  man  can't 
back  out  of  a  thing  like  that." 

Then  I  told  him,  without  the  names,  about  Guy 
Whitby-Dawson.  Guy  had  "  backed  out."  Guy 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  the  sacrifice  of  "  running 
in  single  harness,"  and  had  said  so,  frankly.  I 
praised  him. 

"  Naturally,"  Ranny  answered,  "  if  people 
hadn't  enough  money  to  marry,  nobody  would  ex- 
pect them  to  marry.  But  in  the  case  I'm  talking 
about,"  he  said  gloomily,  "  the  man,  my  friend,  is 
an  eldest  son.  He  is  going  to  have — oh,  it's  rot- 
ten luck!" 

I  asked  him  if  he  really  thought  that  not  to 
have  enough  money  to  keep  house  on  was  worse 
than  not  to  have  enough  love  to  keep  house  on. 
He  said  that  what  he  thought  wasn't  the  question. 


ANOTHER    GIRL  183 

The  question  was  what  the  girl  would  think.  And 
what  the  girl's  family  would  think.  I  asked  how 
anybody  was  to  know  what  the  girl  would  think 
unless  she  was  asked.  Ranny  gave  his  rough 
head  a  despairing  shake. 

Of  course  I  couldn't  tell  him  half  of  what  I 
felt  about  that  girl,  but  I  kept  seeing  her.  Very 
happy.  Never  dreaming  what  her  lover  was  feel- 
ing. I  saw  them  going  up  the  church  aisle  to  be 
married.  All  the  smiling  and  congratulating 
afterwards.  I  saw  them  "  going  away."  And  I 
felt  sick. 

But  I  did  try  to  make  him  feel  a  little  for 
the  girl.  He  said  that  "  feeling  for  the  girl  " 
was  precisely  what  had  decided  the  business.  The 
girl  couldn't  be  told  the  truth. 

"She'll  guess  it!" 

But  that  didn't  comfort  him  as  I  had  expected. 
"  Even  if  she  guesses  she  couldn't  be  expected  to 
release — m — my  friend." 

"Why?" 

"  Because,"  said  Ranny  with  his  childlike  air, 
"  because  she'll  probably  never  have  as  good  an 
offer  again." 

I  was  conscious  of  an  inner  fury  when  he  said 


184  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

that.  I  turned  on  him.  And  all  of  a  sudden, 
quite  curiously,  my  feeling  changed.  His  face 
showed  not  only  utter  innocence  of  any  arrogance, 
the  expression  on  it  was  of  great  misery.  And 
this  was  so  at  odds  with  the  roundness  and  the 
hint  of  dimples,  the  roughened  hair  that  the  damp 
air  had  begun  to  curl,  that  as  I  looked  at  him,  I 
felt  the  queer,  stirring-at-the-heart  sort  of  softness 
perhaps  only  women  know,  when  they  catch  a 
glimpse  in  some  man's  face  of  the  child  that  died 
when  he  grew  up.  I  could  see  just  what  Ranny 
had  been  like  when  he  was  in  short  dresses.  Full 
of  laughter;  as  he  was  still  when  we  first  knew 
him.  And  in  face  of  those  earlier  bumps  and 
bruises,  just  this  bewilderment  overmastering  the 
pain  of  the  baby  who  is  outraged  at  the  dispro- 
portion between  desert  and  reward — the  baby  who 
thinks,  if  he  doesn't  say:  "I  never  did  a  single 
thing,  and  here  all  this  has  tumbled  down  on  my 
head." 

In  that  instant  I  saw  how  lovable  Ranny  Dallas 
was,  and  instead  of  reproaching  him,  I  found  my- 
self saying:  "  If  that's  true — what  you  say — it 
is  very  horrible  for  the  girl,  but  I  see  it  is  probably 
nearly  as  horrible  for  the  man." 


ANOTHER    GIRL  185 

And  Ranny  sat  down  on  the  wet  heather  under 
a  gorse  bush  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"Get  up,"  I  said;  "here's  my  handkerchief. 
Get  up  quickly.  Lady  Helmstone  is  coming." 

But  who  was  the  man  with  her? 

It  was  Eric  Annan. 


CHAPTER  XX 

TWO  INVITATIONS  AND  A  CRISIS 

BEFORE  those  two  were  visible  to  the  group  round 
Duncombe  front  door,  or  within  hailing  distance 
of  us,  they  turned  into  the  bypath  leading  to  Big 
Klaus's. 

I  could  not  tell  whether  Eric  had  seen  us.  But 
I  was  quite  sure  Lady  Helmstone  had.  Sure,  too, 
that  she  had  deliberately  avoided  us. 

Ranny  didn't  want  to  come  back  with  me,  and 
I  didn't  press  him.  I  promised  him  I  would  say 
he  was  going  to  walk  across  the  heath  to  the  inn 
— "  had  to  get  back — expecting  a  telegram." 

I  stayed  behind  in  the  gorse  bushes  alone,  till  I 
saw  Lord  Helmstone  and  all  his  party  going  home. 

I  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  meeting  Betty. 

I  went  round  by  the  kitchen  and  crept  up  the 
back  stairs.  I  listened  at  my  mother's  door. 

Not  a  sound.  Then  I  heard  Betty  downstairs 
playing  the  accompaniment  to  a  song  she  and 
Ranny  used  to  sing. 

So  I  opened  my  mother's  door  and  went  in. 

186 


TWO    INVITATIONS  187 

The  first  thing  she  said  was,  without  any  pref- 
ace, "  I  know,  now,  why  Lady  Helmstone  invited 
a  child  like  Bettina  to  go  yachting  for  six  months 
rather  than  you." 

"So  do  I,"  I  answered;  "they  all  adore  Bet- 
tina. And  then  she  is  Hermione's  special 
friend." 

"  There  is  another  reason,"  my  mother  said, 
looking  out  of  the  window.  "  A  reason  that  con- 
cerns— Lady  Barbara."  Then  she  glanced  at  me, 
a  little  shyly,  and  away  her  eyes  went  again  to 
the  window.  "  Lord  Helmstone  thinks  a  sea- 
voyage  would  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for 
Mr.  Annan.  They  are  asking  him  to  be  one  of 
the  party." 

I  felt  as  if  some  hard  substance  had  struck  me 
violently  in  the  face.  But  I  managed  to  bring  out 
the  words:  "  Is  he  going,  do  you  think?  " 

"  No  doubt  he  will  go,"  she  said. 

***** 

Already  I  seemed  to  have  lost  him  as  utterly  as 
though  he  had  died.  Yet  with  none  of  that  sad 
comfort  my  mother  had  spoken  of — the  comfort 
of  knowing  one's  possession  safe  beyond  all  risk 
of  loss  or  tarnishing. 


i88  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  had  never  been  on  a  yacht. 

I  had  never  seen  a  yacht. 

Yet  I  could  see  Eric  on  the  Nautch  Girl.  And 
Lady  Barbara ! 

Her  mother's  words  came  back:  "  Very  little  is 
done  at  balls."  Very  much,  the  story-books  had 
told  me,  was  done  by  throwing  people  together 
on  a  long  voyage.  My  own  heart  told  me  the 
same. 

Yes,  I  had  lost  him. 

And  I  had  lost  myself. 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  In  the  morning 
Hermione  came  to  carry  Bettina  off  for  their  last 
day  together.  I  had  to  promise  that,  if  Ranny 
should  come  to  Duncombe,  I  would  send  for 
Betty. 

As  I  sat  with  my  mother,  that  same  afternoon, 
the  door  opened,  and  there  was  the  maid  bringing 
in  Mr.  Annan. 

I  think  I  scarcely  spoke  or  moved. 

It  was  my  mother  who  said:  "I  thought  you 
would  come  to  say  good-bye." 

"  *  Good-bye  '  ?  "      Then,    with   unusual    brus- 


TWO    INVITATIONS  189 

querle  where  my  mother  was  concerned,  he  added : 
"  When  /  come  to  see  people,  what  I  say  is, 
'How  do  you  do?'" 

"  But  aren't  you  going  away  to-morrow?  " 

"Why  should  I?" 

"  Why,  to  catch  the  Nautch  Girl" 

"  I  can't  think  of  a  girl  I  should  so  little  care 
to  catch." 

And  he  wasn't  going  at  all!  Had  never  con- 
templated it  for  a  moment ! 

The  weight  of  the  world  fell  off  my  shoulders. 
And  for  nearly  five  minutes  of  a  joy  almost  too 
great  to  be  borne,  I  believed  that  it  was  because 
of  me  he  wasn't  going. 

Then  he  told  my  mother  it  was  because  of  his 
work.  And  so  it  was  that,  unconsciously,  he  made 
good  the  excuse  I  had  offered  for  his  bolting  off 
the  afternoon  I  told  him  my  secret.  He  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  that  episode.  At  least,  he  be- 
haved as  though  it  had  never  happened. 

He  laughed  a  little  over  his  interview  with  her 
ladyship.  "  Very  determined  individual,  Lady 
Helmstone."  He  had  told  her,  finally,  that  he 
hadn't  time  even  to  go  to  his  sister's  wedding. 
He  had  not  thought  it  necessary,  he  said  to  add 


i9o  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

that  he  wouldn't  have  gone  to  his  sister's  wedding 

however  much  time  he  had. 

Of  course,  my  mother  asked  why  such  un- 
brotherly  behaviour?  He  told  us  that  he  didn't 
approve  of  the  marriage.  There  was  nothing 
against  the  man's  character.  He  was  a  "  Writer 
to  the  Signet,"  which  seemed  in  Scotland  to  mean 
a  sort  of  barrister.  I  said  "  Writer  to  the  Signet  " 
sounded  much  finer  than  "  barrister."  I  was  told 
that  Maggie  Annan  could  not  be  expected  to  live 
on  a  fine  sound.  And  that  was  about  all  they 
would  have.  This  particular  "  Writer  to  the 
Signet "  was  poor.  "  Oh,  poorer  than  poor!  " 

I  didn't  like  his  way  of  saying  that. 

As  we  went  downstairs  I  was  rather  glad  of 
being  able  to  disagree  with  him  about  something. 
It  would  keep  me  from  being  foolish.  I  had  that 
feeling  of  the  creature  who  has  been  straining 
long  at  bonds,  and  finds  the  sudden  loosing  a  test 
of  equilibrium.  For  fear  I  should  seem  too 
gloriously  content  with  him,  I  taxed  Eric  with 
thinking  over  much  about  money.  He  said  a  man 
may  put  up  with  any  sort  of  hardship  he  likes  for 
himself.  But  no  man  had  a  right  to  marry  till  he 
could  support  a  wife  in  some  sort  of  comfort.  I 


TWO    INVITATIONS  191 

suggested  that  perhaps  Maggie  Annan  cared  less 
about  comfort  than  she  cared  about  other  things. 
He  retorted  that  Maggie  probably  hadn't  thought 
it  out  at  all.  She  was  acting  on  impulse.  "  To 
think  it  out — that  was  the  man's  business."  And 
so  on. 

I  felt  myself  growing  impatient  when  he  said 
"  comfort "  for  the  second  time. 

"  When  people  are  old,  yes !  '  Comfort '  then. 
But  when  they're  young,  what  does  it  matter?  " 

He  leaned  against  the  newel  of  the  staircase 
and  looked  at  me,  quite  surprised.  "  I  thought 
you  were  more  practical,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  practical.  That's  why  I  say  comfort  is 
wasted  on  the  young.  They  don't  even  want  it — 
unless  they're  rather  horrid  sort  of  young  people." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  laughing,  and  I  felt  hot. 
I  tried  to  explain.  Such  a  lot  of  things  were  fun 
when  you  were  young,  especially  when  they  were 
shared.  I  had  noticed  that.  Things  that  made  you 

cross,  and  made  you  ill  when  you  were  older 

Suddenly  I  stopped,  saying  in  my  heart: 
"  Heavens !  isn't  this  the  kind  of  foolishness  I  was 
hoping  to  be  saved  from?  Or  is  it  worse?  .  .  ." 
For  Eric  was  smiling  in  such  a  disconcerting  way. 


H92  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  said  primly  that  Miss  Maggie  did  not  need 
me  to  defend  her,  and  that  I  must  not  keep  him 
from  his  work. 

That  word  was  like  the  touch  of  a  whip.  In 
two  seconds  he  was  gone. 

The  next  day,  Monday,  just  the  same.  He 
ran  in  only  for  a  moment  to  see  my  mother.  He 
could  not  sit  down;  he  could  not  do  this,  nor  that. 
Work,  work !  It  had  seized  him  in  a  fresh  grip. 

I  was  thankful  to  the  work  for  having  carried 
him  away  that  Monday  afternoon,  when  Betty 
came  back  from  seeing  the  Helmstones  off.  It 
was  a  Betty  we  had  never  seen  before.  I  don't 
know  what  else  Hermione  had  said  to  her,  but 
Betty  had  been  told  that  she,  too,  might  have 
gone  yachting. 

It  was  like  a  stab  to  see  my  mother's  face  now, 
and  to  remember  the  confidence  with  which  she 
had  quoted  the  old  story  about  Bettina's  insisting 
on  the  promise  that  she  should  not  be  made  to 
pay  visits:  "  Not  never?"  "  Not  never!  " 

I  had  hated  Lady  Helmstone  for  saying  that 
Bettina  would,  in  her  ladyship's  opinion,  be  found 
to  have  outgrown  her  reluctance. 

It  was  true. 


TWO    INVITATIONS  193 

Bettina  wanted  to  go! 

My  mother,  unwisely  I  felt,  reminded  Betty  of 
the  old  pledge. 

"  I  was  a  baby  then.     What  did  I  know?  " 

And  now  there  were  tears  in  Bettina's  eyes  be- 
cause she  was  not  going  to  leave  her  mother. 

I  don't  like  to  think  of  those  next  days.  They 
were  all  a  strain  and  a  tangle. 

I  cannot  imagine  what  we  should  have  done 
without  Eric.  For  the  way  Bettina  took  her  dis- 
appointment made  my  mother  positively  ill.  Eric's 
prescription  was  hard  to  fill:  "  Peace  of  mind — 
absolute  quiet  and  tranquillity." 

"  You  are  less  alarmed,"  he  said  in  that  direct 
way  of  his,   "  than  you  were  that  first  day  you 
brought  me  here.     But  you  have  more  reason." 
***** 

I  did  not  want  Bettina  fully  to  realise  the  cloud 
that  was  so  surely  gathering  to  burst — and  yet  I 
was  angry  at  her  failure  to  realise.  So  unreason- 
able, so  unkind  I  found  I  could  be!  Oh,  I  lost 
patience  more  than  once.  But  my  mother,  never. 

"  You  will  see  all  the  beautiful  places  some  day, 
my  darling." 


i94  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Bettina  was  sure  she  never  should.  This  had 
been  her  one  chance — who  else  was  likely  to  take 
her? 

"  The  fit  and  proper  person.  Your  husband 
will  take  you,  as  your  father  took  me." 

That  answer  surprised  us  both. 

I  could  not  blame  Bettina  for  feeling  that  it 
seemed  to  postpone  the  delights  of  travel  over- 
long. 

The  strange  new  Bettina  went  about  the  house, 
settling  to  nothing,  at  once  restive  and  idle.  All 
on  edge.  The  worst  sign  of  all  was  that  she 
neglected  her  music.  My  mother  remonstrated. 

"What's  the  use?" 

"  You  will  find  your  music  a  very  important  part 
of  your  equipment." 

"  Equipment!  "  said  the  new  Bettina  scornfully. 
"  Equipment  for  what?  " 

"  For  taking  your  place  in  the  world." 

"The  world!"  Bettina  exchanged  looks  with 
me.  Yes,  the  world  seemed  far  away.  Inacces- 
sible. 

"  If  we  never  go  anywhere — never  see  anyone, 
what  is  the  use  in  being  equipped?  " 

I  think  Bettina  was  sorry  she  said  that.     The 


TWO    INVITATIONS  195 

effect  of  it  was  as  though  some  rude  hand  had 
thrown  down  a  screen.  My  mother  looking  up 
with  hollow,  startled  eyes  must  have  caught  a 
glimpse  of  something  that  she  dreaded. 

***** 

"  Don't  put  it  off,"  she  whispered.  "  Write  to 
your  Aunt  Josephine  to-night." 

I  composed  my  letter  very  carefully. 

My  sister  and  I  had  often  wished,  I  wrote,  that 
we  had  some  acquaintance  with  our  only  relation. 
Especially  as  she  and  our  father  had  been  so  much 
to  each  other.  Our  mother  was  in  poor  health. 
We  lived  very  quietly.  But  we  all  hoped  if  ever 
Aunt  Josephine  came  to  this  part  of  the  world — 
a  very  pretty  part — she  would  come  to  see  us.  I 
was  nearly  nineteen  now,  and  I  was  hers  "  affec- 
tionately." 

Feeling  myself  very  diplomatic  and  "  deep,"  I 
enclosed  the  last  photograph  Hermione  had  taken 
of  Bettina.  I  wrote  on  it  "  Betty  at  sixteen — but 
it  does  not  do  her  justice." 

If  anything  could  win  her  over,  it  would  be  that 
snapshot  of  Betty  dancing  on  Duncombe  lawn. 

I  posted  the  letter  in  an  access  of  remorse  and 
wretchedness — afraid  I  had  left  it  too  late.  For 


196  MY   LITTLE   SISTER 

my  mother  had  said,  "  After  all,  instead  of  your 
leaving  me,  I  shall  have  to  leave  you." 

That  same  night  Eric  told  me  that  he  had  sent 
to  London  for  a  heart-specialist.  And  the  heart- 
specialist  had  answered  he  would  be  down  on 
Thursday,  which  was  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I 
saw  in  Eric's  face  that  he  was  anxious  at  the  de- 
lay. He  admitted  that  he  was  "  afraid  "  to  wait. 
Yes,  he  would  wire  for  another  man. 

Eric—"  afraid  " ! 

"  You  don't,"  I  whispered,  "  you  don't 
mean  .  .  .  quite  soon?" 

He  repeated  that  he  was  "  afraid." 

Then  I  felt  I  knew  all  that  any  specialist  could 
tell  me. 

***** 

That  was  the  day  I  came  to  know  the  steady- 
ing influence  of  a  call  to  face  great  issues.  They 
bring  their  own  greatness  with  them.  They  wrap 
it  round  our  littleness.  Only  afterwards,  think- 
ing how  gentle  and  watchful  Eric  looked  in  tell- 
ing me,  I  remembered  that  people  were  supposed 
to  faint  when  they  heard  news  like  that.  For 
myself  I  had  never  felt  so  clear-headed.  Never 
felt  the  responsibility  of  life  so  great.  Never  felt 


TWO    INVITATIONS  197 

that  for  us  to  fail  in  bearing  our  share  was  so 
unthinkable. 

If  this  Majesty  of  Death  were  soon  to  clothe 
my  mother,  her  children  must  not  hide  and  weep. 
They  must  help  her,  help  each  other  to  meet  the 
Great  King  at  the  gate. 

All  the  little  troubles  fell  away.  I  was  kind 
again  to  Betty. 

I  called  my  lover  "  Eric."  He  called  me  by  my 
name.  Just  that. 

No  more  passed  between  him  and  me.  But  I 
felt  I  had  taken  this  man  and  that  he  had  taken 
this  woman  "  for  better  or  worse." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AUNT  JOSEPHINE'S  LETTER 

BETTINA  came  into  the  room  and  handed  me  a 
letter. 

"  Mrs.  Harborough !  " — my  mother  drew  her- 
self up  on  the  pillow  with  an  animation  I  had  not 
thought  to  see  again. 

I  opened  and  read:  "  My  dear  niece — — " 

"  Ah!  "  my  mother  brought  out  the  ejaculation 
with  an  effect  of  having  doubted  if  the  relation- 
ship would  be  owned. 

That  introductory  phrase  turned  out  to  be  the 
most  comprehensible  part  of  the  first  half  of  Aunt 
Josephine's  letter.  As  for  me,  I  was  completely 
floored  by  "  the  Dynamism  of  Mind,"  after  I  had 
stumbled  over  a  cryptic  reference  to  my  mother's 
state — "  which  you  must  not  expect  me  to  call  sick- 
ness. There  is  no  such  thing.  There  is  only 
harmony  or  unharmony,  whether  of  the  so-called 
body  or  the  soul." 

On  the  third  page,  the  writer  descended 
198 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE'S   LETTER     199 

from  these  Alpine  heights,  to  say  that  it  had  been 
"  inspirationally  borne  in  upon  "  her  that  the  time 
was  come  for  her  brother's  daughters  to  widen 
their  horizon,  and  incidentally,  to  see  something 
of  their  father's  world. 

The  implied  slur  upon  our  mother's  world  was, 
to  my  surprise,  not  resented. 

"  Go  on.     Go  on." 

The  letter  ended  by  saying  that,  in  spite  of  very 
grave  and  urgent  preoccupations,  Aunt  Josephine 
would  endeavour  to  draw  a  little  of  the  old  life 
round  her,  if  her  nieces  would  come  and  stay  with 
her  in  Lowndes  Square  for  a  few  weeks* 

"  A  London  season !  "  Bettina  cried. 

I  looked  up  from  the  letter  and  saw  my  mother 
watching  with  hungry  delight  Bettina's  face  of 
rapture.  Bettina  had  not  looked  like  that  since 
the  Helmstones  went  away. 

But  the  most  marked  change,  after  all,  was  in 
my  mother  herself. 

When  Eric  came  he  was  staggered.  "  I'll  be- 
lieve in  miracles  after  this!  " — and  we  joked  about 
the  Dynamism  of  Mind. 

My  mother  had  taken  for  granted  that  both 
Bettina  and  I  would  accept  Aunt  Josephine's  in- 


200  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

vitation,  though  I  said  at  once  /  could  not  leave 
home.  My  mother  put  this  aside  with:  "  Bettina 
go  alone !  A  wild  idea." 

When  the  question  came  up  again  in  Eric's  pres- 
ence I  did  not  press  it  far.  But,  going  down- 
stairs, I  asked  him  how  was  I  to  put  it  to  my 
mother  ? 

"  Put  what?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  the  fact  that  we  can't  leave  her.  Or, 
at  least,  that  I  can't."  I  agreed  Betty  must 

go- 

"  So  must  you,"  he  said.     My  heart  beat  faster. 

His  villeggiatura  was  near  the  end.  London,  for 
me,  meant  Eric.  "  You  need  the  change,"  he 
said,  "  more  than  Betty  does." 

"  You  forget,"  I  said,  a  little  sadly,  "  what 
we've  been  facing  here.  The  specialist  com- 
ing  " 

"  Well,  he  will  find  she  has  rallied." 
Nevertheless,  she  was  in  no  condition,  Eric  said, 
to  be  crossed.  Had  she  not  told  me  herself  that 
my  first  duty  was  to  take  care  of  Betty?  That 
was  not  how  he  would  put  it — all  the  same,  the 
change  would  do  me  good.  Then  a  word  about 
our  "  trustworthy  servants."  In  any  event  I  was 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE'S    LETTER     201 

not  to  say  any  more  about  not  going,  till  we  had 
seen  the  "  London  chap." 

***** 

She  went  on  quite  wonderfully. 

We  were  positively  gay  again — she  and  I  and 
Bettina — the  three  of  us  laying  plans. 

We  talked  about  clothes,  and  planned  how  we 
should  look  very  nice  on  very  little  money. 

When  the  great  specialist  came,  he  found  my 
mother  sitting  up  in  a  bed  covered  with  old  even- 
ing-gowns, old  laces,  and  embroidered  muslins; 
things  she  had  worn  long  ago  in  India,  and  which 
should  help  to  make  us  brave  for  our  first  Lon- 
don season.  Smart  little  blouses,  morning-gowns 
and  afternoon-gowns,  could  be  made  in  the  house 
or  in  the  village.  But  who  was  worthy  to  make 
an  evening-frock  fit  for  London?  My  mother 
was  much  more  concerned  about  this  than  about 
the  great  specialist,  whom  she  received  rather  as  a 
friend  of  Eric's.  He  echoed  all  that  Eric  had 
said. 

***** 

My  mother  had  made  me  write  to  Aunt  Jose- 
phine on  the  evening  of  the  same  day  that  brought 
her  letter.  I  did  not  tell  anyone,  but  I  put  off 


202  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

posting  my  answer  till  the  London  doctor  had 
gone. 

My  letter  was  not  only  thanks  and  acceptance. 
I  felt  I  ought,  in  common  civility,  to  try  to  make 
some  more  or  less  intelligent  rejoinder  to  the  odd 
part  of  my  aunt's  letter.  And  this  modest  effort 
seemed  not  to  displease  her.  For  she  replied  in 
eight  pages  of  cloudy  metaphysic  and  a  highly 
lucid  cheque.  The  cheque  alone  supported  us  in 
our  attempt  to  grapple  with  those  eight  bewilder- 
ing pages.  The  first  introduced  us,  by  way  of  the 
Psychology  of  the  Solar  Plexus,  to  the  Self-Super- 
lative : 

"  If  this  view-point  interests  you,  I  will  later  explain 
to  you — in  terms  of  inclusiveness  and  totalism — the  mys- 
tical activities  of  the  Ever-Creative  Self." 

"  Isn't  she  awfully  learned!  "  said  Bettina  in  a 
scared  voice. 

"  On  your  return  home,  having  '  contacted,'  as  we  say, 
the  talents  and  the  tranquillity  of  others — instead  of  con- 
tacting things  of  lack  and  fear — you  will  be  able  to  think 
happily  and  sweetly  about  matters  that  formerly  disturbed 
you.  All  the  ills  of  life  are  curable  from  within.  Com- 
plete health  is  wisdom.  I  do  not  go  so  far  as  to  predict 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE'S    LETTER     203 

that  you  will  find  yourself  instantly  able  to  adopt  the  bio- 
vibratory  sympathism  which  habitualises  thought  to  the 
Majesty  of  Choice.  But  I  do  say  that  after  giving  the 
deeper  and  sweeter  Self  a  chance  to  unite  the  self  of  com- 
mon consciousness,  constructively,  with  the  Powers 
Within,  that  you,  too,  may  find  yourself  a  Healer — that 
is,  Harmoniser — clothed  in  the  Regal  Now." 

After  that  plunge,  Aunt  Josephine  came  to  the 
surface  for  breath,  so  to  speak,  and  to  say  that  she 
thought  it  only  fair  to  tell  us  that  she  herself  had 
seen  almost  nothing  of  general  society  for  the 
past  ten  years.  She  had  her  work.  She  had  her 
classes  in  which  we  might  take  some  interest.  I 
was  to  tell  "  the  musical  one  "  that  Self-Expression, 
through  voice-culture  and  pianoforte  playing,  was 
one  of  the  Keys  to  the  Biosophian  System. 

Aunt  Josephine  had  already  taken  opera-tickets 
for  the  season.  And  we  should  go  to  as  many  con- 
certs as  we  liked.  We  should  see  pictures  and  we 
should  see  people.  We  should  "  learn  to  use  the 
plus  sign  in  thought."  We  should  "  recognise  the 
cosmic  truth  that  ALL  is  GOOD." 

This  concluding  phrase  was  underscored  three 
times.  And  still,  despite  its  provokingly  obvious 
aspect,  I  felt  that  I  had  not  a  notion  what  Aunt 


204  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Josephine  meant  by  it.  My  mother  said  the 
reason  was  that  I  knew  nothing  of  mysticism. 
Eric  said  neither  did  he.  But  he  knew  stark,  star- 
ing lunacy  when  he  saw  it.  And  he  was  more  than 
doubtful  if  we  ought  to  be  entrusted  to  this  de- 
mented step-aunt. 

My  mother  reproved  Eric's  flippancy.  Either 
she  really  did  see  daylight,  and  most  excellent 
meaning,  in  the  Biosophical  Theory,  or  she  con- 
cerned herself  to  make  out  a  case  for  the  defence 
of  Aunt  Josephine.  She  told  Eric  she  was  sur- 
prised that  a  man  of  science  should  at  this  time 
of  the  day  cast  ridicule  on  the  doctrine  of  an  es- 
sential harmony  between  "  soul  states  "  and  the 
health  of  the  body.  For  her  part,  she  felt  the 
attraction  of  this  idea  of  ceasing  the  little  lonely 
personal  fight  against  overwhelming  odds — this 
putting  oneself  into  direct  relation  with  the  Infinite. 

Eric  stared. 

Yes,  my  mother  maintained,  there  was  much  to 
be  said  for  Mrs.  Harborough's  idea  that  each  in- 
dividual should  learn  to  think  of  his  life  in  con- 
nection with  this  underlying  force.  If,  instead 
of  denying  God  we  affirmed  Him  .  .  .  refusing 
to  accept  or  to  believe  in  evil 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE'S    LETTER     205 

"  All  very  jolly  for  us,"  Eric  said,  "  but  what 
about  the  poor  cancerous  devils  in  our  hospital?  I 
see  us  looking  in  on  them  and  saying:  *  Oh,  you're 
all  right !  Three  cheers  for  harmony.  Come  out 
and  play  golf  with  the  staff.'  ' 


After  Eric  had  gone  my  mother  lay  back  on 
the  pillow,  her  shining  eyes  on  Bettina  pirouetting 
noiselessly  about  the  room.  I  begged  Bettina  to 
stop  her  gyrating. 

She  explained  she  was  doing  the  cheque  dance. 
Mercifully  there  was  this  antidote — I  mean  post- 
script to  Aunt  Josephine's  letter.  "  Nearer  the 
time  "  she  would  send  us  the  money  for  our  tickets. 
The  enclosed  £40  was  for  clothes. 

Now  the  way  was  clear! 

No. 

The  question  still  was,  Who,  this  side  of  Lon- 
don, could  be  trusted  to  make  our  frocks?  The 
seriousness  of  the  consideration  brought  the  cheque 
dance  to  an  end.  We  sat  and  thought. 

The  precise  date  of  this  visit  was  not  yet  fixed. 
Aunt  Josephine  had  asked  what  time  would  suit 
us  best. 


206  MY   LITTLE   SISTER 

With  one  voice,  Betty  and  I  cried,  "June!" 

But  we  were  promptly  told  (and  we  agreed) 
that  to  suggest  June  would  be  too  grasping. 
Aunt  Josephine  would  have  other,  more  important, 
guests  eager  to  come  to  her  for  the  Coronation 
month.  So  we  answered:  Any  time  convenient  to 
her. 

Then  that  admirable  Aunt  wrote  back:  "  Would 
next  month  do?  "  And  would  we  stay  for  the 
Coronation? 

In  spite  of  the  breathless  shortness  of  the  time 
of  preparation,  Bettina  composed  Coronation 
dances  and  practised  curtseying  to  the  Queen, 
though  she  knew  quite  well  that  she  would  only 
see  Her  Majesty  at  a  distance  driving  by  in  her 
golden  coach. 

The  one  consideration  that  sobered  Bettina  was 
who,  who — on  this  short  notice,  with  all  the 
feminine  world  crying  passionately  for  frocks — 
who  could  be  found  to  make  ours?  The  more 
plain  and  simple,  the  more  important  was  style 
and  cut.  Nobody  in  the  country-side  was  com- 
petent for  such  an  undertaking. 

Brighton?     Very  dear,  and  not  first-rate. 

Suddenly  Betfina  clapped  her  hands. 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE'S    LETTER     207 

"  The  little  French  dressmaker  Hermione  told 
us  about." 

The  very  person!  Only,  wouldn't  she  be  up 
to  the  eyes  in  work?  We  remembered,  too,  she 
was  said  to  be  "  not  strong."  She  didn't  care,  as 
a  rule,  to  work  out  of  London.  But  she  had  come 
to  sew  for  those  horrid  people  Lord  Helmstone 
let  the  Pond  House  to  the  year  before.  The 
people  turned  out  to  be  badly  off,  and,  after  doing 
some  damage,  they  had  gone  away  without  paying 
their  rent.  A  law-suit  was  pending  between  them 
and  Lord  Helmstone.  We  had  never  known 
them,  but  we  could  not  help  noticing  their  clothes. 
They  were  beautiful.  Even  my  mother  said  so. 

Hermione  had  played  golf  once  or  twice  with 
the  boy  and  girl.  One  day  she  had  admired 
openly  something  the  girl  was  wearing. 

"  Yes,  looks  quite  Bond  Street,  doesn't  it?  "  the 
girl  said.  "  And  all  done  at  home  by  a  little 
dressmaker  at  four-and-six  a  day." 

Hermione  had  got  the  woman's  address, 
specially  for  us,  she  said — meaning  for  Bettina. 
Hermione  was  always  advising  Bettina  about  her 
clothes  and  making  the  child  discontented  with 
what  she  had. 


208  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

We  had  not  wanted  any  "  little  tame  dress- 
maker "  at  the  time,  but  we  were  enchanted  now, 
when  Bettina  turned  up  the  card  inscribed: 

"  MADAME  AURORE, 
"  87,  CRUTCHLEY  STREET, 
"  LEICESTER  SQUARE." 

"  Madame  Aurore !  "  my  mother  echoed.  "  No 
doubt  a  cockney  of  the  cockneys !  " 

***** 

She  was  not  a  cockney.  And  she  was  a  great 
surprise. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PLANTING  THYME 

THE  morning  she  came  was  the  morning  Eric 
said  good-bye  "  just  for  a  few  days,"  he  dreaming, 
as  little  as  we,  of  what  those  few  days  were  to 
bring. 

And  so,  ignorant  of  what  I  was  facing,  I  was 
almost  happy  in  spite  of  the  parting,  because  of 
what  Eric  said  to  me  that  last  Monday  morning. 

The  cart  had  been  ordered  to  go  for  Madame 
Aurore  at  9 142.  Directly  after  breakfast  my 
mother  and  Bettina  set  about  trimming  hats — a 
business  in  which  they  scorned  my  help.  I  had 
something  particular  to  finish  in  the  garden.  I 
went  on  digging  up  the  bare  patches  on  the  south 
bank,  sharing  the  delight  of  all  things  growing 
and  blowing  and  flying  under  the  glorious  cloud- 
piled  sky  of  May.  I  listened  intently,  as  I 
worked,  to  that  orchestra  of  tiny  sound  underneath 
the  loud  birds'  singing.  The  spring,  unlike  last 
year's,  had  been  cold  and  late;  many  days  like 
this — with  crisp  air  and  fitful  sunshine.  Only 
here,  in  the  sheltered  south-west  corner,  were 

209 


210  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

the  bees  in  any  number  tuning  up  their  fiddles. 

I  looked  up  from  my  work  and  saw — at  that 
most  unusual  hour — Eric  Annan  at  the  gate!  I 
saw,  too,  that  he  looked  odd — excited.  I  dropped 
the  garden-fork.  "  What  is  the  matter?  "  I  said. 

"Matter?     What  should  be  the  matter?" 

I  only  smiled.  It  was  so  like  Eric  not  to  be 
pleased  at  hearing  he  had  betrayed  himself. 

"  I  thought  you  looked  as  if — as  if  something 
had  happened,"  I  said.  What  I  meant  was,  as 
if  something  were  about  to  happen.  Only  one 
thing,  I  thought,  could  make  Eric  look  like  that; 
make  him  interrupt  his  precious  morning;  one 
thing,  alone,  could  have  grown  so  great  overnight 
that  the  heart  of  man  could  not  conceal  it,  or  con- 
tain it,  for  another  hour. 

But,  even  if  my  hopes  were  not  misleading  me, 
I  felt  that  Eric  would  not  like  my  having  guessed 
so  much.  To  hide  my  eyes  from  him  I  bent  down 
over  my  basket.  I  lifted  out  tufts  of  aromatic 
green,  and  set  them  firmly  in  the  loosened  soil.  I 
pressed  the  earth  down  tight  about  their  roots. 

"  What  are  you  planting  there?  "  he  asked. 

"  Re-planting  the  wild  thyme,"  I  said.  Some- 
thing had  killed  it  last  year. 


PLANTING   THYME  211 

"Where  do  you  find  wild  thyme?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  how  far  I  had  to  go  for  it.  And 
when?  Before  breakfast!  He  looked  aston- 
ished. 

I  did  not  like  to  explain  that  I  had  got  into  the 
habit  of  waking  early  to  study.  And,  now  that 
studying  was  no  use,  I  spent  the  time  in  taking 
delicious  walks  in  the  early  morning,  before  other 
people  were  awake.  I  confessed  the  walks. 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  told  me,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"  Because,  for  these  next  days,  I  can't  come 
too." 

I  went  on  planting  thyme. 

"  Promise  me,  for  these  next  days  you  won't  go 
either." 

"Why?"  I  asked  again. 

"  Because  my  thoughts  might  go  wandering." 

I  nudged  the  wild  thyme,  and  we  both  smiled 
secretly. 

"  I  can't  afford,  just  at  this  moment,  to  have 
anything  distracting  me."  He  said  this  in  an 
anxious,  almost  appealing,  way. 

"  Very  well,"  I  answered.  "  I  won't  go  early 
walks  for  the  next — how  many  days  am  I  to  be 


212  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

cooped   up   when   the  morning   is    at   its   best?" 

u  Oh,  not  long."  Then  with  that  impatience 
of  his,  if  you  were  doing  other  things  while  he 
was  there :  "  How  much  more  of  that  stuff  are  you 
going  to  put  in?  " 

"  All  there  is,"  I  said  provokingly.  And  I  did 
not  hurry. 

"  Why  must  you  have  wild  thyme  there?  "  he 
grumbled. 

"  So  as  not  to  disappoint  the  blue  butterflies,"  I 
said  gravely.  "  They  '  know  a  bank '  and  this  is 
it.  They've  had  an  understanding  with  my 
mother  about  it  for  years.  If  they  don't  find 
thyme  here  they're  annoyed.  They  go  on  dying 
out.  My  mother  says  a  world  without  blue  but- 
terflies would  be  a  poor  sort  of  place." 

We  talked  irrelevancies  for  a  moment  more — 
the  passion  of  the  convolvulus  moth  for  petunias, 
and  the  other  flowers  the  different  sorts  of  moths 
and  butterflies  preferred. 

He  was  surprised  to  hear  that  for  years  my 
mother  had  taken  all  that  trouble  to  please  even 
the  ordinary  red  admirals  and  spotted  footmen 
and  painted  ladies.  I  explained  that  I  was  re- 
planting this  thyme  only  to  please  my  mother. 


PLANTING   THYME  213 

"  Personally,"  I  had  never  bothered  much  about 
the  butterfly-garden,  I  said,  in  what  he  promptly 
called  a  superior  tone. 

I  maintained  that  the  pampered  creatures  were 
dreadful  "  slackers  "  and  sybarites — all  for  colour 
and  sweet  scents. 

He  stood  listening  a  moment  to  the  bees'  band 
playing  in  the  rhododendron  concert,  and  then  he 
defended  the  butterflies.  Butterflies  were  much 
misunderstood.  "  In  their  way — and  a  very  good 
way,  too — they  answer  to  the  call." 

"What  call?" 

"  The  call  to  serve  the  ends  of  life." 

I  looked  up,  surprised,  from  my  fresh  thyme 
patch,  for  general  moralisings  were  not  much  in 
Eric's  way.  "What  are  the  ends  of  life?" 

"  More  life."  There  was  a  moment's  pause. 
Then  he  said  butterflies  were  no  more  "  idle  "  than 
bees  and  birds.  Besides  attending  to  their  more 
immediate  affairs  they  were  pollen-bringers. 

It  was  such  solemn  talk  for  butterflies.  I  told 
him  the  two  sulphur  yellows  reeling  in  the  sun- 
shine were  laughing  at  him.  "  '  Ends  of  life  ' 
indeed!  They  simply  love  bright  colour  and 
things  that  smell  sweet.  .  .  ." 


2i4  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  Of  course  they  love  them!  "  Then  he  said 
something  that  sank  deeper  than  any  single  sen- 
tence I  ever  heard:  "Hating  never  created  any- 
thing; all  life  comes  from  lovers." 

At  the  moment  that  great  saying  only  frightened 
me.  And  the  strange  thing  was  it  seemed  to 
frighten  him. 

We  were  very  still  for  a  moment.  I  thought 
even  the  little  music  of  the  honey  bees  had 
slackened.  I  and  all  the  world  waited — holding 
breath. 

Then  a  gust  of  wind  veered  round  the  corner, 
and  Eric  turned  up  his  collar.  He  asked  if  I 
wasn't  cold.  I  was  anything  but  cold.  But  I 
had  noticed  that  after  his  long  hours  of  motion- 
less concentration  indoors,  Eric  was  very  sensitive 
to  chill.  So  I  put  off  planting  the  rest  of  the 
thyme,  and  I  took  Eric  up  to  the  morning-room. 

;<  What  is  he  going  to  tell  me?  "  I  asked  myself 
on  the  way.  And  though  I  asked,  I  thought  I 
knew. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ERIC'S  SECRET 

MY  sister  and  I  breakfasted  in  the  morning-room 
in  those  days,  and  we  always  had  a  fire  for  Bet- 
tina's  sake  on  chilly  mornings. 

In  the  back  of  my  mind  I  was  hoping  Eric's 
complaint  of  cold  was  an  excuse.  If  my  first  im- 
pression had  been  right,  if  he  had  something  to 
tell  me,  he  would  tell  it  better  indoors.  I  should 
hear  it  better,  sitting  beside  him. 

The  pang  when  he  passed  the  sofa  by!  I  was 
wrong.  ...  I  was  an  idiot.  .  .  . 

He  drew  up  before  the  ungenerous  little  fire 
and  began  at  once  to  speak  with  suppressed  ex- 
citement of  a  "  secret." 

" the  sort  of  thing  that — well,  I  wouldn't 

trust  my  own  brother  with  it."  And  upon  that  he 
stopped  short. 

I  did  not  say:  "You  can  trust  me."  But  I 
hardly  breathed  in  the  pause.  I  felt  it  all  hung 
on  whether  he  told  me.  What  hung?  Why, 
everything — whether  life  was  going  to  be  kind  to 

215 


216  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

me  some  day  .  .  .  whether  it  was  well  or  ill  that 
I  had  been  born. 

He  seemed  to  be  content  with  having  told  me 
there  was  a  secret.  For  he  changed  the  subject 
abruptly  to  the  Bungalow,  and  what  an  adept 
Bootle  was  at  inoculation  and  the  preparation  of 
cultures.  Bootle  possessed  the  great  and  glorious 
faculty  of  accuracy!  One  of  the  few  men  on 
earth  whose  account  of  a  thing  did  not  need  to  be 
checked. 

Sitting  over  the  fire  that  morning,  Eric  told  me 
that  the  Bungalow  was  a  laboratory.  Very  im- 
portant work  had  been  done  there  last  autumn. 
(So  that  was  why  he  had  stayed  on!)  "  Tentative 
but  highly  significant  results  "  had  been  arrived  at 
— results  which  all  these  months  of  contest  and 
putting  to  proof,  in  London  and  on  the  Continent, 
had  not  been  able  to  upset. 

"Gods!"  Eric  exclaimed,  with  a  startling 
vehemence.  But  this  was  a  glorious  place  to 
work  in!  The  best  air  in  England!  And  the 
Bungalow  had  been  an  inspiration  from  on  high! 
Far  away  from  noise  and  interruption;  and  not 
merely  for  a  few  paltry  hours.  Great  stretches 
of  time  to  himself!  Then  you  were  so  fit  here. 


ERIC'S    SECRET  217 

You  slept.  You  had  all  your  wits  about  you. 
As  we  knew,  it  was  Hawkins's  idea  in  the  first 
place — that  Eric  should  come  down  and  rest. 
Well,  now  I  was  to  hear  something  more  about 
Hawkins.  Hawkins  was  a  kind  of  mascot.  He 
not  only  was  the  best  man  they'd  ever  had  in  that 
chair  at  the  University.  He  wasn't  only  a  first- 
rate  bacteriologist,  and  first-rate  all-round  man. 
There  was  something  about  Hawkins  that  struck 
fire  out  of  other  people.  His  rooms  were  a  meet- 
ing-place for  chaps  keen  about — well,  about  the 
things  that  matter.  Hawkins  gave  a  dinner  at 
his  club  one  night  to  some  London  University 
men  and  a  couple  of  distinguished  foreigners. 

"  Of  course,  we  talked  shop.  We  argued  and 
stirred  one  another  up,  and  the  sparks  flew. 
When  the  rest  had  gone  Hawkins  and  I  stayed 
talking  in  the  smoking-room.  About  an  idea  " — 
Eric  looked  round  to  see  that  the  door  was  shut — 
"  a  new  idea  I  was  working  at  for  dealing  with 


cancer." 


"  Dealing !  "  I  echoed,  leaning  forward.  *  You 
mean  curing?  " 

" 1  told  Hawkins  about  an  experiment  I'd 

been  making.  As  I've  said,  Hawkins  is  very  in- 


218  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

telligent.  But  he  contested  my  conclusions.  I 
grew  hot.  We  argued.  I  told  him  more  and 
more.  Hawkins  thought  my  experiments  too 
rough-and-ready.  Even  if  they  weren't  rough- 
and-ready,  to  be  conclusive  they  must  be  tried  on 
an  extended  scale.  I  stood  up  for  the  validity  of 
tests,  on  a  small  scale,  done  with  an  infinity  of 
care — a  ruthless  spending  of  the  investigator  rather 
than  multiplication  of  the  subject.  All  the  same, 
I  couldn't  deny  that  precious  time  was  being 
wasted  and  many  lives.  Hawkins  was  right.  I 
did  need  a  trained  staff,  and  I  needed — oh,  masses 
of  things  I  had  not  got,  and  had  no  prospect  of 
getting.  We  had  tried  the  forlorn  hope  of  a 
Government  grant — and  failed.  We  agreed  that, 
in  working  out  an  idea  like  mine,  the  crucial  dan- 
ger lay  in  premature  publicity.  We  are  in  a  cleft 
stick  in  these  matters.  Without  the  right  people 
knowing,  believing,  helping,  it  is  hard — pretty 
nearly  impossible — to  go  forward.  I  sat,  rather 
dejected,  and  stared  at  the  fire.  The  smoking- 
room  had  been  empty  except  for  a  little,  dried-up 
old  man,  who  was  half  asleep  over  the  evening 
papers.  A  few  minutes  after  Hawkins  had  gone 
out  to  pay  his  bill,  the  little  old  man  waked  up 


ERIC'S    SECRET  219 

and  went  to  a  writing-table.  In  a  half-minute  or 
so  I  looked  round,  and  he  was  standing  quite  near 
me,  warming  his  back  at  the  fire. 

"  *  I've  been  eavesdropping,'  he  said.  Lord ! 
I  was  scared.  How  much  had  I  given  away? 
*  I  don't  know  anything  about  this  subject,'  he 
said.  '  But  I've  an  idea  you  do.  Anyhow,  I'm 
willing  to  gamble  on  it.  My  name's  Pearmain,' 
he  said,  and  he  showed  me  the  signature  on  a 
cheque.  '  A  thousand  pounds  to  start  you.'  He 
laid  the  cheque  down  on  the  little  table  among 
the  matches  and  cigar-ends.  '  You  can  let  me 
know  when  you  need  more,'  he  said.  He  fished 
a  card  out  of  an  inside  pocket,  and  chucked  it  on 
top  of  the  cheque.  Naturally  I  was  staggered. 
He  seemed  right  enough  in  his  head,  but  I  was 
sure  he  couldn't  be.  ...  When  Hawkins  came 
back  I  introduced  him.  We  talked  awhile  longer. 
Then  the  old  man  said  good-night.  The  next 
day  I  cashed  the  cheque.  I  gave  up  my  post  in 
the  hospital,  and  I  gave  up  ...  a  lot  of  things. 
After  that  I  invested  every  ounce  of  energy  I 
had  in  this  undertaking.  For  three  solid  years 
I've  done  nothing,  thought  about  nothing,  except 
the  one  thing." 


220  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

His  eyes  were  shining  as  a  lover's  might,  I 
thought.  The  sting  of  jealousy  poisoned  my 
pleasure  in  being  taken  into  his  confidence — a  re- 
newed antagonism  to  the  work,  work,  always 
work,  that  made  its  triumphant  claim. 

"  You  pretend  to  be  more  inhuman  than  you 
are,"  I  said.  "  For  you  don't  forget  that  you  can 
help  people  who  have  only  ordinary  everyday 
troubles." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  he  laughed.  "  I'll  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  ordinary,  everyday  troubles." 

"  You  helped  us " 

"  Oh,  that's  different — an  exception.  Just  for 
once.  .  .  ."  He  seemed  to  excuse  himself,  for 
wasting  time  on  us.  He  said  the  most  extrava- 
gant things.  "  A  revolution  might  have  swept 
England.  I  should  have  gone  on  attenuating  se- 
rums and  inoculating  guinea-pigs." 

It  may  have  been  something  in  my  manner,  or 
just  my  silence,  that  pulled  him  up.  He  spoke  of 
the  share  we  at  Duncombe  had  had  in  "  what's 
happened." 

"  When  I  was  clean  worked  out  and  dead-beat, 
I  came  here." 

We  hadn't  any  notion  of  the  "  rest  and  refresh- 


ERIC'S    SECRET  221 

ment — the "  He  looked  at  me  out  of  those 

clear  red-brown  eyes  of  his,  and  seemed  to  de- 
liberate. 

A  sense  of  delicious  panic  seized  me.  "  And — 
the — the  experiments.  How  do  they  come 
on?"  I  asked,  but  I  wasn't  thinking  of  them  at 
all. 

"  That,"  he  said,  sinking  his  voice — "  that's 
just  what  I'm  coming  to;  though  I  hoped  I 
shouldn't  tell  you.  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything 
at  all  this  morning,  except  that  I  was  going  to  be 
a  hermit  for  these  next  days.  But  you  aren't  a 
chatterbox.  The  fact  is  ...  last  night  I  believe 
I  stumbled  on  the  secret." 

I  don't  know  what  I  said,  but  it  pleased  him. 
His  eyes  were  full  of  gentle  brilliancy.  "  Yes, 
yes,"  he  said.  "  I  knew  you'd  understand." 

Oh,  it  was  good  to  see  him  with  that  light  in 
his  face ! 

And  we  sat  there,  with  the  morning  sun  shin- 
ing over  us,  and  just  looked  gladness  at  each 
other.  Then  I  said  I  thought  he  must  be  the  hap- 
piest man  in  England. 

He  half  put  out  his  hand,  and  drew  it  back. 
"  I  am  to  find  that  out,  too,  very  soon,"  he  said. 


222  MY  LITTLE    SISTER 

The  clock  downstairs  chimed  ten.  Eric  jumped 
up  like  a  person  with  a  train  to  catch. 

He  had  taken  me  into  his  counsels  prematurely 
like  this,  he  said,  because  he  wanted  to  feel  sure 
that  I  wasn't  putting  any  wrong  construction  on 
the  fact  of  his  burying  himself  for  these  next  days. 
"  I  like  to  think  you  are  understanding.  If  I  have 
any  good  news,  I'll  come  and  tell  you.  If  you 
don't  hear,  you'll  know  I  don't  dare  let  go  my 
clue  even  for  an  hour,  except  to  sleep." 

And  now  he  must  go. 

I  went  with  him  as  far  as  the  gate. 

He  walked  with  head  bent,  and  eyes  that  saw 
things  hidden  from  me.  Already  he  was  back  in 
the  Bungalow. 

I  felt  the  misery  of  being  deserted.  But  I  felt, 
too,  the  strong  intelligence,  the  iron  purpose,  in 
the  man.  And  though  I  was  torn  and  aching, 
I  was  proud.  For  all  my  jealousy,  as  I  saw  the 
mouth  so  firm-set  under  the  red-brown  thatch,  saw 
the  colour  in  his  face,  something  reached  me,  too, 
of  the  heat  of  this  passion  to  find  out — something 
of  the  absorption  of  the  man  of  science  in  his 
task.  Here  was  the  new  kind  of  soldier  going  to 
his  post. 


ERIC'S    SECRET  223 

I  held  out  my  hand.     "  Good  luck!  " 

He  took  it,  then  dropped  it  quickly. 

And  quickly,  without  once  looking  back,  he 
walked  away. 

I  watched  him  hurrying  across  the  links  till  one 
of  the  heath  hollows  swallowed  him  up. 

As  I  turned  to  go  back  to  my  thyme-planting, 
I  heard  the  dog-cart  rattling  along  the  stony  road. 

Madame  Aurore! 

I  never  finished  planting  the  thyme. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MADAME   AURORE 

MADAME  AURORE  was  little  and  wasted  and  shrill. 

She  had  deep  scars  in  her  neck,  and  dead-look- 
ing yellow  hair. 

She  was  drenched  in  cheap  scent. 

Her  untidy,  helter-skelter  dress  gave  no  hint 
of  the  admirable  taste  she  lavished  upon 
others. 

She  saw  at  once  what  we  ought  to  have,  and 
she  talked  about  our  clothes  with  an  enthusiasm 
as  great  as  Betty's  own. 

"  Ah,  but  Madame!  "  she  remonstrated  dramat- 
ically, when  my  mother  showed  her  the  new  white 
satin,  which  was  for  me,  and  a  creamy  lace  gown 
which  was  to  be  modernised  for  Bettina — "  not 
lot  vhite !  " 

My  mother  explained  that  my  gown  was  to 
have  rose-coloured  garnishing. 

"  Mais  non !  mais  non!  "  Madame  must  pardon 
her  for  the  liberty,  but  she,  Madame  Aurore, 
could  not  bring  herself  to  see  our  chief  advantage 
thrown  away. 

224 


MADAME    AURORE  225 

What,  then,  was  our  chief  advantage?  Betty 
demanded. 

What  indeed,  but  the  contrast  between  us.  The 
moment  she  laid  eyes  on  the  hair  of  Mademoiselle 
Bettina  she  had  said  to  herself:  the  frock  of 
Mademoiselle  Bettina  should  be  that  tender  green 
of  tilleul — with  just  a  note  of  bleu  de  ciel.  Oh,  a 
dress  of  spring-time — an  April  dress,  a  gay  little 
dress,  for  all  its  tenderness!  A  dress  to  make 
happy  the  heart  of  all  who  look  thereon. 

But  "green!"  We  had  sent  all  the  way  to 
London  for  the  white  satin,  and  we  had  no  green. 

Then  'twas  in  truth  une  bonne  chance  that 
Madame  Aurore  had!  She  often  bought  up  bar- 
gains and  gave  her  clients  an  opportunity  to  ac- 
quire them.  She  rushed  out  of  the  room,  and 
returned  with  a  piece  of  silk  chiffon  of  the  most 
adorable  hue.  She  showed  us  the  effect  over  white 
satin.  My  satin.  But  then,  as  Madame  Aurore 
said,  we  could  so  easily  send  to  Stagg  and 
Mantle's  for  more. 

She  looked  at  me  out  of  snapping  black  eyes — 
eyes  like  animated  boot-buttons.  'Yes,  yes;  for 
you,  Mademoiselle,  ze  note  sail  be  serenite  .  .  . 
hein?  Zis  priceless  old  lace  over  ivory  satin. 


226  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Ah  .  .  ."  She  struck  an  attitude.  "  I  see  it. 
So  ...  and  so.  A  ceinture  panne,  couleur  de 
feuille  d'automme  touched  with  gold  broderie. 
Hein?  Oh,  very  distingue,  hein?  " 

"It  must  not  be  expensive";  we  had  to  say 
that  to  Madame  Aurore  all  that  first  day,  at 
regular  intervals.  But  she  had  her  way.  She 
sewed  hard,  and  she  chattered  as  hard  as  she 
sewed. 

Bettina  ran  across  her  in  the  passage  that  first 
evening  as  Madame  Aurore  came  up  from  supper. 
And  they  began  instantly  on  the  fruitful  theme  of 
"  green  gown."  My  mother  called  out  to  Bet- 
tina that  she  had  talked  enough  about  clothes  for 
one  day,  and  in  any  case  she  had  left  us  to  go 
early  to  bed.  Bettina  regretted  her  rash  promise 
— wasn't  the  least  tired,  and  could  have  talked 
clothes  till  cock-crow!  There  was  some  argu- 
ment on  this  head  at  the  door,  in  which  Madame 
Aurore  joined,  with  too  great  a  freedom,  and  an 
elaborate  air  of  ranging  herself  on  my  mother's 
side.  This  pleased,  least  of  all,  the  person  Ma- 
dame Aurore  designed  to  propitiate. 

Madame  Aurore,  I  am  sure,  had  not  been  in 
the  house  an  hour  before  she  had  taken  the  meas- 


MADAME    AURORE  227 

ure  of  our  main  preoccupation.  Mademoiselle 
Bettina  ought  to  be  grateful,  she  said,  to  have  a 
mother  so  devoted,  so  solicitous.  Standing  near 
the  open  door,  she  piled  up  an  exaggerated  case 
of  maternal  love.  There  was  nothing  in  life  like 
the  love  between  mother  and  child.  Ah,  didn't 
she  know !  Her  own  little  girl 

My  mother  said  she  must  have  the  door  shut 
now,  and  I  was  sent  to  undo  Betty's  gown. 

Bettina  thought  it  angelic  of  Madame  Aurore 
not  to  resent  our  mother's  lack  of  interest  in  the 
small  Aurore.  According  to  Bettina,  Madame 
showed  a  wonderfully  nice  disposition  in  not  with- 
drawing her  interest  from  us  after  that.  She 
seemed  rather  to  imply:  very  well,  you  don't  care 
about  my  child  .  .  .  but  I  am  still  ready  to  care 
about  yours. 

"  Parf aitement !  "...  the  little  dressmaker 
remembered  Bettina's  passing  Drew  Pond  House 
the  summer  before.  It  was  true  what  Hermione 
had  reported.  Madame  Aurore  had  leaned  out 
of  the  window  to  watch  Bettina.  She  had  even 
expressed  the  wish  that  she  might  have  the  dress- 
ing of  cette  jolie  enfant. 

Oh,  but  life  was  a  droll  affair! 


228  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Bettina  thought  it  entirely  delightful.  She 
went  about  the  house  singing.  The  first  time 
Madame  Aurore  heard  Bettina  she  arrested  the 
rapid  stab  of  her  basting  needle:  "  Who  ees  dat?  " 

"  That  is  my  youngest  daughter." 

"  She  tink  to  go  on  ze  stage?  " 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Not?     It  ess  a  vast,  zat." 

***** 

She  was  always  cold. 

Whenever  we  were  out  of  the  morning-room 
she  piled  on  the  coal.  On  the  second  day  I  re- 
monstrated. Fuel,  I  explained,  was  very  expen- 
sive so  far  from  the  coal-fields.  She  smiled. 
"  You  are  ze  careful  one,  hein?  "  and  she  looked 
at  me  in  a  way  which  made  me  uncomfortable. 

But  I  did  not  feel  about  the  poor  little  creature 
as  my  mother  did. 

My  mother  went  so  far  as  to  wish  we  had  not 
sent  for  her.  She  would  never  have  allowed  her 
to  come  if  she  had  seen  her  first.  I  thought  my 
mother  severe. 

Everybody  else,  including  the  servants,  liked 
Madame  Aurore.  No  wonder.  She  spent  her 
life  doing  things  for  people.  Sewing  for  us  all 


MADAME    AURORE  229 

day  like  mad,  so  that  our  two  best  frocks  might 
be  finished  in  spite  of  the  shortness  of  the  time; 
and  still  ready  at  nightfall  to  show  the  cook  how 
to  make  p'tite  marmite,  or  sauce  a  la  financiere — 
equally  ready  to  advise  the  housemaid  how  to  give 
the  Bond  Street,  not  to  say  the  Rue  de  la  Paix, 
touch  to  her  Sunday  alpaca,  and  chic  to  old  Ran- 
som's beehive  hat. 

If  she  asked  them  one  and  all  more  questions 
in  a  minute  than  they  could  answer  in  a  month, 
what  did  that  show  but  the  generous  interest  she 
took  in  her  fellow-beings? 

Bettina,  with  her  little  air  of  large  experience, 
said  that  Madame  Aurore  was  the  most  "  sympa- 
thetic "  person  she  had  ever  met.  Madame  Au- 
rore's  benevolent  concern  about  our  clothes,  our 
soups,  sauces,  and  servants,  and  everything  that 
was  ours,  extended  to  our  friends  and  relations  and 
everything  that  was  theirs.  She  had  never,  she 
said,  known  people — let  alone  such  charming 
people  as  we — with  so  few  acquaintances.  Bet- 
tina thought  Madame  Aurore  was  sorry  for  us. 

She  asked  a  great  deal  about  the  Helmstones. 
"  Ze  only  friends  and  zey  are  avay  for  seex  mont !  " 
Ah,  it  was  well  we  were  going  to  London.  We 


230  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

should  die,  else,  of  aloneness.  Aunt  Josephine 
plainly  was  the  one  ray  of  light  in  our  grey  ex- 
istence. Where  did  she  live?  Lowndes  Square  I 
Ah,  but  a  very  expensive  and  splendid  part  of 
London!  No  news  to  us,  who  had  our  own 
private  measure  for  social  altitudes.  Bettina  had 
looked  out  Lowndes  Square  on  our  faded  map  of 
London.  Aunt  Josephine  was  only  a  private  per- 
son, but  she  lived  nearer  the  King  and  Queen  than 
the  Helmstones  did. 

And  for  all  her  being  a  Biosophist  she  had 
asked  us  to  stay  for  the  Coronation.  Bettina 
frequently  led  the  conversation  to  the  great  event 
of  June.  But  this  queer  little  Frenchwoman  was 
more  interested  in  Aunt  Josephine  than  she  was 
in  the  King  and  Queen.  Here  was  distinction  for 
an  Aunt! 

And  what  was  she  like — this  lady?  We  must 
have  a  picture  of  our  only  and  so  valuable  rela- 
tion. 

Bettina  went  and  rooted  about  in  the  deep 
print  and  photograph  drawer,  till  she  brought 
Aunt  Josephine  to  light.  Very  faded  and  old- 
fashioned  looking,  but  Madame  Aurore  regarded 
the  face  with  a  respectful  enthusiasm.  "  Oh,  une 


MADAME    AURORE  231 

grande  dame !  une  vraie  grande  dame !  "  Madame 
Aurore  understood  better  now  what  was  required. 

We  repudiated,  on  our  aunt's  behalf,  the  idea 
that  she  was  so  much  grande  dame  as  philan- 
thropist, thinker,  recluse.  We  did  not  deny  her 
grandeur.  We  but  clarified  it;  or,  at  least,  Bet- 
tina  did. 

"  Bettina  talks  too  much  to  that  woman,"  my 
mother  said  to  me  privately.  She  sent  for  Bet- 
tina and  told  her  she  was  not  to  speak  to  Madame 
Aurore  about  anything  except  her  work. 

Bettina  thought  to  interpret  this  order  literally 
would  be  inhuman.  Besides,  she  considered  it 
very  nice  of  Madame  Aurore  to  take  such  am  in- 
terest in  us.  "  /  am  grateful  when  people  take 
an  interest,"  said  Bettina  with  her  air  of  supe- 
riority. 

When  my  mother  heard  that  Bettina  had  been 
discussing  Aunt  Josephine,  and  had  unearthed  the 
photograph  to  show  to  Madame  Aurore,  she  was 
annoyed.  "  Go  and  bring  me  the  picture,"  she 
said. 

Bettina  went  into  the  morning-room,  and  looked 
about  for  some  minutes.  The  little  dressmaker 
sat  there,  in  a  litter  of  white  and  green,  sewing 


232  MY    LITTLE    SISTER 

furiously.  Bettina  said  at  last  that  she  hated  most 
dreadfully  to  bother  Madame  Aurore,  but  where 
was  that  old  photograph? 

Madame  Aurore  looked  up  absently.  "  Had 
Mademoiselle  Bettina  not  taken  it  out?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  did "  Bettina  scoured  the 

house. 

Aunt  Josephine's  photograph  was  never  found. 
***** 

I  was  glad  our  mother  did  not  know  that  Bet- 
tina had  told  Madame  Aurore  about  the  pendant 
and  the  diamond  sta-r.  Bettina  excused  herself  by 
saying  Madame  Aurore  had  been  so  certain  a  lady 
like  our  mother  must  have  jewels,  and  that  she 
would  lend  them  to  her  daughters,  in  order  to  put 
the  finishing  touch  of  elegance  to  our  toilette. 
Betty  had  felt  it  due  to  our  mother  to  acknowl- 
edge that  a  part,  at  least,  of  this  exalted  expecta- 
tion was  not  so  wide  of  the  mark.  And  Bettina 
endorsed  Madame  Aurore's  opinion  that  a  'dia- 
mond star  certainly  would  "  light  up  "  my  ivory 
satin  and  old  lace.  Also — but  no,  we  must  do 

without. 

***** 

The  green  frock  was  all  but  finished.     We  had 


MADAME    AURORE  233 

brought  the  cheval  glass  out  of  my  mother's  room. 
She  was  "  not  strong  enough  to  stand  the  pat- 
chouli," so  she  missed  the  great  moment  of  the 
final  trying  on.  Bettina  stood  before  the  glass, 
looking  somehow  more  childish  than  ever,  or 
rather  seeming  less  of  common  earth  and  more  of 
fairyland,  in  the  tunic-frock  of  green,  her  short 
curls  on  her  neck. 

My  fancy  that  she  was  like  somebody  out  of 
"  The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  was  set  to 
flight  by  Madame  Aurore's  shower  of  couturiere's 
compliment,  mixed  with  highly  practical  considera- 
tions, such  as :  "  See  how  it  falls  when  you  sit 
down.  Parf aitement !  And  can  you  valk  in  it? 
But  wis  grace! "  Bettina  proved  she  could. 
"  A  merveille !  Sapristi !  Mademoiselle  Bettine 
would  see  the  sensation  she  was  going  to  create  in 
London.  Could  she  lift  ze  arm — hein?"  Mais 
belle  comme  un  ange! — many  makers  of  quite 
beautiful  gowns  studied  the  effect  seulement  en 
repos.  Mademoiselle  Bettine  would,  without 
doubt,  dance  in  that  frock.  Let  us  see,  did  it 
lend  itself?  Bettina  moved  about  the  morning- 
room  to  waltz  time — laughing  at  and  with  Ma- 
dame Aurore;  stopping  to  make  court  curtsies; 


234  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

watching  in  the  glass  if  green  frock  had  pretty 
manners. 

One  thing  more,  its  maker  said,  and  behold 
Perfection!  It  needed  ...  it  cried  aloud  for  a 
single  jewel. 

"  Ah,  yes."  Bettina's  look  fell.  No  doubt  the 
finishing  touch  would  have  been  a  pearl  and 
emerald  pendant.  But 

Madame  Aurore  struck  in  with  a  torrential  rap- 
ture, drowning  explanation  and  regret.  Life, 
Madame  Aurore  shrilled,  was  for  ever  using  her, 
humble  instrument  though  she  was — for  the  work- 
ing out  of  these  benevolences.  There  had  she — 
but  three  days  ago — all  innocent,  unknowing — 
tossed  that  piece  of  chiffon  tilleul  into  her  trunk. 
Or  rather,  not  her  hand  performed  the  act — not 
hers  at  all.  The  hand  of  Fate!  And  now,  The 
Finger!  .  .  .  pointing  straight  at  the  pearl  and 
emerald  pendant.  But,  instantly,  must  Mademoi- 
selle Bettine  go  and  get  the  ravishing  jewel — the 
diamond  star,  as  well,  while  she  was  about  it. 

Then  poor  Betty  had  to  say  these  glories  were 
no  more. 

Madame  Aurore  snapped  her  boot-button  eyes, 
and  rolled  them  up.  Our  poor,  poor  mother! 


MADAME    AURORE  235 

Deeply,  ah !  but  profoundly,  Madame  Aurora  com- 
miserated  une  dame  si  distinguee,  si  elegante, 
being  in  straitened  circumstances.  Ah,  Madame 
Aurore  understood!  She  would  be  most  econom- 
ical with  the  coals. 

All  the  same  she  wasn't. 

But  what  did  it  matter !  since  she  turned  us  out 
dresses  that  we  were  sure  Hermione,  herself, 
would  have  characterised  as  "  Dreams."  Bet- 
tina  went  about  the  house,  singing: 

'  Where  are  you  going  to,  my  pretty  maid  ?  ' 
'  Going  to  London,  Sir,'  she  said.  .  .  ." 

***** 
Madame  Aurore  even  managed  to  put  the 
finishing  touches  to  the  two  frocks  made  in  the 
village,  which  Bettina  called  our  Coronation  robes 
— just  white  muslin,  but  not  "  just  muslin  "  at  all, 
after  they  had  passed  through  Madame  Aurore's 
hands.  She  listened  indulgently  while  Bettina 
wondered  how  the  young  Princes  would  like  driv- 
ing through  London  in  a  gold  coach,  and  above 
all  how  the  little  Princess  would  feel;  and  how 
she  would  look;  and  how  did  Madame  Aurore 
think  she  would  do  her  hair? 


236  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  I  don't  like  that  woman,"  my  mother  ob- 
served pointedly  to  Bettina. 

"  Oh,  dearest,  she  feels  it.  I  know  from  some- 
thing  " 

"  I  do  not  object  to  her  knowing.  But  I  am 
not  interested  in  Madame  Aurore."  My  mother 
dismissed  her. 

The  fact  was  that  none  of  the  torrent  of  talk 
(carried  on  now  in  a  whisper,  with  elaborate  def- 
erence to  the  chere  malade) — none  of  it  had  to 
do  with  Madame  Aurore  herself.  We  had  had 
to  ask  her  all  of  the  little  we  came  to  know  about 
her.  She  had  no  regular  business  in  London. 
Ah,  no,  she  was  too  often  ill.  She  merely  went 
out  to  work  when  she  was  "  strong  enuss." 

"  Zen  too,  ze  leedle  gal.  I  haf  to  sink  about 
her."  The  thought  seemed  one  to  harass.  All 
would  be  different  if  Mme.  Aurore  had  a  shop. 

We  agreed  that  to  have  a  shop  full  of  lovely 
French  models,  would  be  delightful.  And  by- 
and-by  the  little  Aurore  would  help  in  the 
shop. 

"  Nevair! "  said  Mme.  Aurore  with  sudden 
passion.  She  knew  all  about  being  in  shops.  It 
was  to  prevent  her  daughter  from  knowing,  too, 


MADAME    AURORE  237 

that  Mme.  Aurore  must  make  money.  The  little 
Aurore  should  go  to  the  Convent  school — which 
seemed  somehow  an  odd  destination  for  the 
daughter  of  Madame  Aurore.  She  spoke  of  it 
as  a  far  dream,  beckoning. 

"  Nossing — but  nossing  can  be  done  in  zis  world 
vidout  monny."  And  what  people  will  do  for 
money — oh,  little  did  we  know!  But  the  world 
was  like  that.  Eh  bien,  Madame  Aurore  had  not 
made  it.  Had  she  done  so,  it  would  be  a  better 
place. 

Betty  and  I  smiled  at  the  pains  taken  to  make 
this  clear.  Madame  Aurore  professed  herself 
revolted  by  an  arrangement  which  made  "  ze 
goodness  or  ze  badness  of  a  pairson  "  dependent 
upon  where  you  happened  to  find  yourself. 

"  Par  example  you  can  be  extremement  good 
here."  More.  She  would  go  so  far  as  to  say  you 
must  be  a  genius  to  discover  how  to  be  bad  here. 

Through  Betty's  laughing  protest,  the  little 
woman  went  on  with  seriousness  to  assure  us  it 
was  "  une  chose  bien  differente  dans  .  .  ."  she 
checked  herself,  bit  off  the  end  of  her  thread,  and 
spat  it  out. 

"  It    is    different,    you    mean,    in    Crutchley 


238  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Street?  "  Betty  asked.  And,  though  she  got  no 
answer,  I  think  we  both  understood  the  anxious 
mother  to  be  thinking  of  the  small  Aurore  left  all 
alone  in  one  of  the  world's  Mean  Streets.  Per- 
haps the  reason  Betty  got  no  answer  to  her  ques- 
tion was  that  she  had  slightly  raised  her  voice  in 
putting  it,  and  I  had  said,  "  Sh!  " 

"What  ees  it?"  Madame  Aurore  demanded, 
looking  round. 

"  I  was  only  reminding  Betty,"  I  said.  "  We 
mustn't  disturb  my  mother." 

Hah!  naturally  not.  Whatever  happened,  she 
was  not  to  be  disturbed ! 

I  was  afraid,  from  the  tone  in  which  Madame 
Aurore  said  this,  that  she  thought  I  had  been 
reproving  her.  And,  to  divert  her  thoughts,  I 
asked:  "Who  takes  care  of  her — the  little 
daughter — while  you  are  away?  " 

Again  she  bit  viciously  at  the  thread.  "  Not 
motch  '  care  ' !  "  The  small  eyes  snapped  as  she 
drew  the  thread  through  the  needle's  eye.  I  had 
never  seen  even  her  hands  fly  so  fast,  or  her 
whole  feverish  little  body  attack  the  basting  with 
such  fury  of  energy  as  after  that  reference  to  the 
child  left  behind  in  Crutchley  Street. 


MADAME    AURORE  239 

Bettina  said  soothingly:  "I  suppose  you  left 
her  with  some  good  friend?  " 

"  Ze  best  I  haf." 

The  admission  was  made  in  an  accent  so  coldly 
hopeless  that  Bettina,  round-eyed,  said:  "Oh, 
dear,  isn't  she  a  nice  friend?  " 

"  She  is  like  ozzers.  She  is  as  nice  as  she  can 
afford."  Madame  Aurore  had  recovered  her 
shrill  vivacity.  She  had  not,  after  all,  taken  to 
heart  my  hint  about  keeping  our  voices  down. 
"  In  some  parts  of  ze  vorld,"  she  went  on,  in 
that  raised,  defiant  note,  "  you  might  be  quite  good 
for  a  week;  wis  luck  for  a  few  months;  but  you 
could  not  be  good  from  year's  end  to  year's  end." 

"  Why  was  that?  "  Bettina  asked  softly. 

Madame  Aurore  laughed  out.  "  Ze  climat !  " 
she  said,  in  a  voice  that  must  certainly  have 
penetrated  the  next  room.  "  Somesing  in  ze  air.'* 
Then  lower,  with  a  tigerish  swiftness :  "  I  shall 
not  ron  ze  risk  for  my  liddle  gal !  Non!  "  She 
tossed  the  satin  on  the  machine,  thrust  it  under 
the  needle,  and  seemed  to  work  the  treadle  by 
dint  of  compressing  lips  and  knitting  brows. 

Bettina  and  I  agreed  we  would  not  talk  to  her 
any  more  about  her  daughter,  since,  unlike  most 


24o  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

mothers,  the  thought  of  her  child  did  not  soften 
Madame  Aurore,  but  made  her  hard  and  angry. 

We  put  this  down  to  wounded  feelings  at  my 
mother's  curt  dismissal  of  the  theme. 

Surreptitiously — for  she  knew  leave  would  be 
refused — Bettina  gave  Madame  Aurore  some  of 
our  old  toys,  and  other  little  gifts,  to  take  home 
to  her  daughter. 

I  did  not  prevent  this,  for  I,  too,  felt  uneasily 
that  we  ought  somehow  to  make  up  for  our 
mother's  nervous  detestation  of  Madame  Aurore. 

Had  this,  as  the  little  dressmaker  hinted,  some- 
thing of  sheer  sickness  in  it — an  invalid's  caprice? 
Bettina  said  lightheartedly :  "Oh,  it's  only  be- 
cause Aurore  is  a  foreigner.  Mother  admits  she 
never  did  like  foreigners." 

After  the  first  day  there  was  almost  no  per- 
sonal interchange  between  Madame  Aurore  and 
her  employer.  Yet  I  had  a  queer  feeling  that  a 
silent  drama  was  being  played  out  between  those 
two  who,  without  meeting,  were  acting  and  react- 
ing upon  each  other. 

Madame  Aurore  asked  each  day,  How  was 
madame?  in  a  voice  of  extremest  solicitude — nay, 
of  gloomiest  apprehension. 


MADAME    AURORE  241 

I  found  myself  wrestling  with  an  uncomfortable 
feeling  that  this  hopeless  view  of  my  mother's 
health  was  somehow  prompted  by  a  desire  "  to  get 
even  "  with  the  one  unresponsive  member  of  our 
little  circle — to  get  even  in  the  only  way  open  to 
Madame  Aurore.  I  knew  she  advised  the  house- 
maid to  look  out  for  another  place,  and  offered  to 
find  her  one  in  London,  where  she  would  be  paid 
double,  and  have  almost  nothing  to  do.  The 
housemaid  was  greatly  tempted,  but  I  was  told 
she  said  she  wouldn't  go  till  her  mistress  was 
better. 

"Bettair!  She  vill  not  last  a  mont!  "  said 
Madame  Aurore. 

At  first  such  echoes  as  reached  me  of  these 
prognostications  made  me  merely  angry.  But  I 
could  not  quite  cast  them  aside.  I  began  to  won- 
der miserably  if  there  were  anything  in  this  view. 
After  all  we,  too — even  Eric — had  held  it  our- 
selves, only  such  a  little  while  before! 

I  wrote  to  Aunt  Josephine  to  say  that  if  my 
mother  were  not  better  by  Monday  morning,  I 
should  bring  Bettina  as  arranged;  but  I  would 
stay  only  one  night  and  go  home  the  next  day. 

The   question  rose   on   Friday  as   to   whether 


242  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Madame  Aurore  should  return  to  London  on 
Saturday  night,  or  some  time  on  Sunday. 

"  Saturday  night,"  said  my  mother  with  de- 
cision. 

Bettina  ventured  to  urge  the  Sunday  alternative. 
"  The  poor  little  thing  is  so  tired  after  sewing  all 
day " 

To  which  my  mother  responded  by  ordering 
the  cart  for  Saturday  evening. 

"  I  cannot  sleep  with  that  woman  in  the  house." 

Bettina  ran  in  to  say  Madame  Aurore  was 
ready  to  say  good-bye.  To  our  embarrassment, 
our  mother  would  not  permit  Madame  Aurore  to 
enter  the  room,  even  for  the  purpose  of  taking 
leave. 

We  went  out  and  did  what  we  could  to  soften 
the  refusal.  "  She  has  not  been  sleeping.  .  .  ." 
"  She  is  trying  to  rest.  .  .  ."  "  She  is  so  much 
obliged  to  you.  .  .  ." 

Ah,  Madame  Aurore  understood.  Our  poor, 
poor  mother  was  undoubtedly  failing.  We  were 
adjured  to  take  every  care.  Certainly  we  should 
not  both  leave  the  poor  lady. 

We    told    Madame    Aurore    that    we    should 


MADAME    AURORE  243 

never  forget  her.  "  I  shall  take  good  care  of  the 
address,"  Bettlna  said. 

No,  Madame  Aurore  would  send  us  a  new  ad- 
dress. She  was  looking  for  larger  rooms.  She 
believed  she  was  going  to  be  stronger  now.  She 
meant  to  take  on  two  or  three  hands.  In  that 
case,  she  would  not  be  able  to  go  out  any  more 
to  people's  houses.  She  would  let  us  know.  .  .  . 

She  filled  the  hall  with  her  patchouli  and  shrill 
vivacity,  and  presently  was  gone. 

When  we  went  back  into  my  mother's  room, 
we  found  her  telling  the  housemaid  to  hang  our 
gowns  in  a  draught  "  to  purify  them." 

Betty  was  moved  to  some  final  remonstrance. 

My  mother  cut  her  short:  "  That  was  a  horrible 
woman!  " 

"  Well,  well,"  I  said,  "  she's  gone." 

"  Yes.  That  is  the  best  that  can  be  said  of 
Madame  Aurore.  We  are  done  with  her  for 
ever." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

GOING  TO  LONDON 

MERCIFULLY,  no  soul  can  stand  at  the  pitch  of  ten- 
sion long.  Those  too  frail  snap.  The  strong 
relax.  As  I  have  learned  since,  few  who  have  to 
do  with  lingering  illness  but  come  to  know  the 
gradual,  inevitable  dulling  of  apprehension  in  the 
watchers.  Eric  says  the  power  of  human  adapt- 
ability sees  to  it  that  the  abnormal  state  of  the 
sufferer  shall  come  by  mere  continuance  to  wear 
an  air  of  the  normal.  And  so  the  watcher,  with 
no  violence  to  loyalty,  or  conscience,  is  relieved 
of  the  sharper  sympathy. 

Certainly,  my  mother  seemed  to  us  in  no  worse 
case  than  many  a  time  before.  Bettina  and  I 
agreed  that  she  began  to  improve  the  moment 
Duncombe  air  was  no  longer  poisoned  for  her  by 
the  presence  of  poor  Madame  Aurore.  What 
Eric  had  said  of  our  trustworthy  servants  was 
true.  Yet  I  had  brought  my  mother  to  agree 
that  my  absence,  now,  was  to  be  a  matter  only 
of  hours,  even  if  I  went  back  for  the  Coronation. 

And  still  I  was  not  spared  a  profound  sinking 
244 


GOING   TO   LONDON  245 

of  the  heart  at  the  moment  of  leave-taking.  I  put 
my  misgiving  down  to  the  fear  that  parting  from 
Bettina  for  four  long  weeks,  would  be  more  than 
my  mother's  scant  reserve  of  strength  could 
bear. 

As  for  Bettina  (oh,  when  I  remember  that!) 
— Bettina  showed  the  bravest  front;  calling  back 
from  the  door:  "I  shall  write  you  every  blessed 
day." 

"  Yes,"  my  mother  steadied  her  voice  to  an- 
swer. "  I  shall  want  to  hear  everything.  The 
good  and — the  less  good." 

;<  There  won't  be  any  '  less  good.'  It's  all  go- 
ing to  be  glorious." 

***** 

As  Big  Klaus's  dog-cart  took  us  across  the 
heath  I  strained  my  eyes  for  some  glimpse  of 
Eric.  A  week  that  day  since  he  had  come  and 
shared  his  secret!  He  could  never  mean  to  let 
me  go  without  a  word.  Not  till  the  train  was  in 
motion  could  I  give  up  hope.  I  stood  a  moment 
longer  at  the  window  looking  back.  No  sign. 

I  took  my  seat  between  Betty  and  an  old  gentle- 
man; she  and  I  both  too  stirred  and  excited  to  talk. 
Betty,  half-turned  away,  looked  out  of  her  window, 


246  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

and  I,  across  her  shoulder  and  over  the  flying 
hedges,  looked  still  for  a  man  who  might  be  walk- 
ing the  field-paths,  looked  for  the  bright  green  roof 
of  his  Bungalow,  looked  for  the  chimneys  of  the 
farm. 

No  sign. 

I  sat  fighting  down  my  tears. 

Not  an  hour  of  these  bustling  days  had  been  so 
full,  but  I  had  felt  the  blank  of  Eric's  silence. 
And  now  again  I  met  the  ache  of  loss  with:  This 
will  teach  you!  You  were  dreading  a  little  time 
away.  He  adds  a  week  to  our  parting.  He 
doesn't  mind.  It's  only  you,  poor  fool — only  you 
who  mind. 

I  looked  round,  in  a  sudden  terror,  lest  anyone 
should  be  noticing  that  my  eyes  were  wet. 

Mercifully,  the  people  were  all  looking  at  Betty. 
I  looked  at  Betty,  too.  I  could  not  see  her  eyes, 
but  the  nearer  cheek  was  that  lovely  colour  whose 
name  she  gave  once  to  an  evening  sky.  We  had 
come  up  on  the  top  of  a  knoll  and  stood  for  a 
moment,  breathless.  My  mother  had  said  no 
painter  could  get  such  a  colour.  And  neither 
were  there  any  words  in  the  language  to  describe 
it.  For  it  was  not  red,  not  flame,  not  pink,  nor 


GOING   TO   LONDON  247 

orange.  But  Betty,  looking  steadily,  had  found 
the  right  words  for  it:  "A  fiery  rose." 

And  that  was  the  colour  in  Betty's  cheeks  on 
the  way  to  London. 

No  wonder  people  looked  at  her.  There  was 
a  man  who  got  out  of  the  first-class  carriage  next 
us  at  every  station,  and  walked  by  our  window. 
He  looked  in  at  Bettina.  I  was  glad  our  carriage 
was  full.  I  felt  sure,  if  it  had  not  been,  he  would 
have  come  in.  I  could  see  Bettina  did  not  resent 
the  staring.  And  then  I  saw  her  look  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eyes. 

"  Bettina !  "  I  whispered.  "  Don't  encourage 
that  strange  man  to  stare  in  here." 

"Me?"  she  said.     "What  am  I  doing?" 

I  told  her  again  that  she  encouraged  him.  But 
I  was  handicapped  by  not  being  able  to  say  just 
how.  I  admitted  that  what  she  did  was  very 
slight.  But  it  was  enough.  "  It  was  what  you 
did  to  Eddie  Monmouth."  Then,  because  she 
pretended  not  to  understand,  I  told  her  that  she 
was  falling  into  bad  deceitful  ways.  I  knew  she 
had  written  to  Ranny  Dallas.  .  .  .  Yes,  and 
kept  writing,  though  the  moment  I  realised  what 
was  going  on  I  wrote  to  Ranny  myself.  I  said 


248  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

if  any  more  letters  came  from  him,  I  should  have 
to  tell  Betty  about  the  girl  in  Norfolk.  Ranny 
wrote  back  that  he  had  told  Betty  himself  I  And 
still  they  went  on  corresponding,  secretly.  I  said 
to  her  now,  that  I  should  hardly  be  surprised  if 
she  was  hoping  to  meet  Ranny  in  London. 

"  Oh,  one  may  '  hope  '  almost  anything,"  said 
Betty  airily. 

"  Not  of  a  man  who  is  engaged  to  another 
girl!" 

"Yes,"  said  Betty;  "as  long  as  he  isn't 
married.  .  .  ." 

Then,  rather  frightened,  I  asked  outright  if 
«he  was  really  expecting  to  meet  Ranny  some- 
where. 

"  How  can  I  say?  He  is  fond  of  the  opera," 
•she  said  in  a  very  superior,  grown-up  way.  "  I 
might  happen  to  see  him  some  night  in  the 
throng " 

"In  the  throng!  Betty,"  I  said.  "You  have 
given  Ranny  Dallas  your  address." 

"No,"  she  said;  "but  I've  given  it  to  Tom 
Courtney." 

Tom  Courtney  was  Ranny's  red-haired  friend. 
41  If  you  had  watched,"  Betty  said,  "  yon  would 


GOING    TO   LONDON  249 

know  that  I  was  corresponding  with  Tom  Court- 
ney, too.  Chiefly  about  Ranny.  Tom  Courtney 
is  a  splendid  friend.  He  explains  things  much 
better  than  Ranny  can.  And  then "  (Betty's 
momentary  annoyance  vanished  in  laughter)  — 
"then,  too,  Tom  can  spell — beautifully!" 

I  refused  to  laugh. 

"  I  knew  you'd  be  horrified,"  Betty  said  again, 
"  and  that  is  why  I  have  to  keep  things  from  you. 
You  are  a  sort  of  nun.  You  never  feel  as  if  all 
your  blood  had  been  whipped  to  a  syllabub.  And 
besides " 

"Besides?" 

"  I  do  like  nice  men.  I  don't  mind  their  know- 
ing. And  I  don't  mean  to  be  an  old  maid.  You 
wouldn't  care." 

"  You  think  I  wouldn't?  "  I  had  no  time  to 
say  more,  for  the  train  stopped.  We  thought  at 
first  we  had  reached  Victoria  Station,  but  it  was 
only  Clapham  Junction.  The  "  staring "  man 
passed  once  more,  with  a  porter  behind  carrying 
golf-clubs  and  portmanteau.  Our  carriage,  too, 
was  emptying.  The  people  stood  and  reached 
things  down  from  the  racks,  and  then  filed  out. 
When  the  train  went  on  we  were  alone. 


250  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Betty  was  still  excited,  but  more  grave,  even 
harassed — a  look  that  sat  rather  pitiful  on  her 
babyish  face. 

I  moved  up  close  to  her  again,  and  I  told  her 
there  was  something  I  had  to  say  before  we  got 
to  London.  "  You  and  I,  you  see,  we  don't  know 
very  much,  and  we  get  carried  away." 

"  You  mean  me,"  said  Betty.  "  You  are  think- 
ing about  Eddie  Monmouth  and " 

Then  I  told  her  I  did  not  mean  her  alone. 
"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  I  said,  remembering 
Mr.  Whitby-Dawson  and  Captain  Monmouth  and 
Ranny — yes,  and  others — "  I  don't  know  how  it 
is,  but  girls  seem  to  '  care '  more  than  men  do." 

"  I've  thought  that,  too,"  Bettina  said. 

I  said  I  was  sure  it  was  true.  Men  had  so 
much  to  do.  Life  was  so  full  for  them  .  .  . 
perhaps  that  took  their  minds  off.  I  put  my  arm 
round  Bettina  and  held  her  close.  "  I  am  going 
to  confess  something,"  I  said,  "  that  most  older 
sisters  would  deny.  But  you  have  got  nobody 
but  me.  And  I  have  nobody  but  you.  We  must 
help  each  other." 

"  I  shall  have  Aunt  Josephine,"  Betty  reminded 
me. 


GOING   TO   LONDON  251 

"  A  stranger — and  too  old  besides."  I  dis- 
missed Aunt  Josephine  for  the  particular  purpose 
in  view.  "  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  very 
— particular."  Then,  while  she  looked  at  the 
cushions  opposite,  and  I  looked  out  of  the  window, 
I  told  her  I  had  learned  from  Eric  Annan  what 
she  had  learned  through  the  others.  "  We'll  say 
it  just  this  once,  and  never,  never  again  so  long 
as  we  live!  And  we  may  have  to  deny  it,"  I 
warned  her.  "  But  I  think,  if  I'm  honest  about 
it  with  you,  maybe  you  won't  feel  that  I  don't  un- 
derstand ...  or  that  I  am,  as  you  say,  '  differ- 
ent.' You  will  feel  closer  to  me,"  I  pleaded. 
"  And  maybe  we  shall  both  be  stronger  for  that." 
I  waited  a  moment.  I  was  glad  Betty  still  stared 
straight  in  front  of  her.  "  We  don't  only  care 
more  than  men  do,"  I  said.  "  We  need  men  more 
than  they  need  us." 

Bettina  turned  at  that.  I  felt  her  eyes  on  me. 
Then  she  looked  down  and  stroked  my  hand. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Annan  does  care  about  you,"  she 
said. 

"  A  little,"  I  said.  "  Not  enough.  Not  as  I 
care." 

Bettina  pointed  out  that  Eric  Annan  was  not  so 


252  MY   LITTLE   SISTER 

young  as  we.  "  Why,  he  must  be  thirty.  Per- 
haps when  he  was  our  age  " — our  eyes  met  in  the 
new  comradeship,  and  then  fell — "  he  may  have 
taken  more  interest  in — more  interest  in  the  things 
we  think  about." 

Then  she  took  it  back.  "  No,  no.  You  may 
depend  it's  only  girls  who  are  like  that — caring  so 
terribly  much.  I  thought  it  was  only  me.  But  if 
you  are  like  that  too,  maybe  there  are  others." 
After  a  moment:  "You  were  good  to  tell  me," 
she  said.  "  I  don't  feel  so — unnatural." 

The  train  was  slowing.  The  light  grew  grey. 
We  were  in  a  dim  place,  between  a  smoky  wall 
and  a  rattling  train  going  out  as  we  came  in. 
Then  the  platform,  and  the  porters  running  along 
by  our  windows.  "Luggage,  miss?" 

Bettina  started  up. 

"  Aunt  Josephine !  " 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AUNT  JOSEPHINE 

SHE  was  an  imposing  figure,  beautifully  dressed 
in  black.  She  was  handsomer  than  her  picture, 
and  younger-looking  than  we  expected.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  bio-vibratory  sympathism  had 
a  thinning  effect. 

Her  manner  was  more  decisive  than  I  had  ex- 
pected from  a  dreamer.  Very  commanding  and 
important,  she  stood  there  with  her  liveried  serv- 
ant behind  her.  Bettina  had  known  her  instantly 
by  the  grey  hair  rolled  high  and  the  pear-shaped 
earrings. 

She  kissed  us,  and  said  I  was  more  like  my 
mother.  And  were  our  boxes  labelled? 

She  hardly  waited  for  us  to  answer.  She  did 
not  wait  at  all  for  our  little  trunk. 

"  A  footman  will  attend  to  the  luggage,"  she 
said.  As  she  led  us  down  the  platform,  her  eyes 
kept  darting  about  in  a  way  that  made  me  think 
she  must  be  expecting  someone  else  by  that  train. 
I  looked  round,  too.  But  nobody  else  seemed  to 

253 


254  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

be  expecting  Aunt  Josephine,  though  a  woman 
towards  the  end  of  the  platform  looked  very 
searchingly  at  our  party  as  we  passed.  Aunt 
Josephine  did  not  seem  to  notice.  She  was  busy 
putting  on  a  thick  motor-veil  over  the  lace  one 
that  was  tied  round  her  hat — her  lovely  hat,  that, 
as  Betty  said  afterwards,  was  "  boiling  over  with 
black  ostrich-feathers." 

A  wonderful  scent  had  come  towards  us  with 
Aunt  Josephine — nothing  the  least  like  that  faint 
garden-smell  that  clung  to  our  linen,  from  the 
sprays  of  lavender  and  dried  verbena  our  mother 
put  newly  each  year  under  the  white  paper  of  our 
wardrobe-shelves.  Such  a  ghost  of  fragrance 
could  never  have  survived  here.  This  perfume 
of  Aunt  Josephine's — not  so  much  strong  as 
dominant — routed  the  sooty,  acrid  smell  of  the 
station.  When  she  lifted  her  arms  to  put  the 
chiffon  over  her  face,  fresh  waves  of  the  rich, 
mysterious  scent  came  towards  us. 

She  seemed  in  haste  to  leave  so  mean  a  place 
as  Victoria.  She  spoke  a  little  sharply  to  the 
footman.  He  explained — and,  indeed,  we  could 
see — that  a  great,  shining  motor-car  was  thread- 
ing its  way  as  well  as  it  could  through  a  tangle  of 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE  255 

taxi-cabs  and  inferior  cars.  Aunt  Josephine  stood 
frowning  under  her  double  veil,  and  once  I  saw 
her  eyes  go  towards  the  woman  who  had  noticed 
us.  The  woman  was  speaking  to  one  of  the 
porters.  The  porter,  too,  looked  at  Aunt  Jose- 
phine and  nodded.  The  dowdy  woman  gave  the 
porter  a  tip,  and  sent  him  on  an  errand.  I  was 
far  too  excited  to  notice  such  uninteresting  people, 
but  for  the  curious  personal  kind  of  detestation 
in  the  look  the  dowdy  woman  fixed  upon  Aunt 
Josephine. 

"  We  won't  wait,"  said  our  aunt.  "  We'll  take 
this  taxi." 

But  just  then  the  beautiful  shining  car  swerved 
free,  and  we  were  hurried  in.  The  footman 
spread  a  rug  over  our  knees.  As  we  glided  out 
of  the  station  I  noticed  the  dowdy  woman  asking 
her  way  of  a  policeman. 

And  the  policeman  didn't  know  the  way.  He 
shook  his  head.  And  both  of  them  looked  after 
us. 

As  we  whirled  through  the  crowded  streets  I 
felt  how  everyone  must  be  envying  Bettina  and 
me. 

Presently   we    came   to    a    quiet   corner.     The 


256  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

houses  stood  back  from  the  street,  in  gardens. 
Our  aunt's  was  one  of  these. 

I  was  too  excited  to  notice  much  about  the 
outside.  But  the  inside! 

Betty  and  I  exchanged  looks.  We  had  no  idea 
Aunt  Josephine  was  so  rich.  There  were  more 
big  footmen — foreigners;  very  quick  and  quiet. 

The  entrance-hall  and  stairs  were  wide  and 
dim.  When  the  front-door  was  shut,  the  house 
seemed  as  silent  as  a  church  on  a  week-day,  and 
the  soft-footed  servants  rather  like  the  sidesmen 
who  show  strangers  to  their  places.  The  very 
window  was  like  a  window  in  a  church.  It  had 
stained  glass  in  it,  and  black  lines  divided  it  from 
top  to  bottom,  into  sections,  like  church  win- 
dows. 

If  I  had  ventured  to  speak  I  should  have  whis- 
pered. Not  even  at  Lord  Helmstone's  had  we 
trodden  on  such  carpets.  No  wonder  our  foot- 
steps made  no  sound.  Going  upstairs  we  seemed 
like  a  procession  in  a  picture.  That  was  because 
the  walls  were  immense  mirrors  separated  by 
gilded  columns. 

Aunt  Josephine  had  taken  off  her  motor-veil. 
She  had  certainly  grown  much  thinner  since  she 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE  257 

had  the  photograph  taken.  That  accounted  for 
her  being  a  more  "  aquiline  "  aunt  than  we  ex- 
pected. Her  nose  curved  down,  especially  when 
she  smiled.  And  her  eyes  were  not  sleepy  at  all 
— a  full  yellow  eye,  the  iris  almost  black. 

We  followed  her  along  a  corridor  till  she  threw 
open  a  door.  "  This  is  yours,"  she  said  in  the 
voice  that  was  both  sharp  and  quick. 

I  looked  into  the  wonderful  pink  and  white 
room.  Instead  of  two  little  beds,  as  we  had  at 
home,  was  one  very  large  one.  It  looked  like  an 
Oriental  throne  with  rose-silk  hangings. 

"  I  will  send  you  up  some  tea,"  she  said. 
"  And  you  must  rest.  I  am  having  a  friend  or 
two  to  dine.  So  wear  your  smartest  gown. 
Come,"  she  said  to  Betty. 

"  Betty  is  the  one  who  ought  to  rest,"  I  said. 

"  And  so  she  shall,"  our  aunt  said.  "  I  will 
show  Betty  her  room." 

Betty  looked  blank. 

"  We  are  not  to  be  together?  "  she  asked. 

"  Together !  "  Aunt  Josephine  repeated  the 
word  with  the  smile  that  drew  her  nose  down. 
"  Oh,  you  shall  have  a  room  of  your  own." 

Betty  moved  a  little  nearer  me. 


258  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  explained  that  she  and  I  always  had  the  same 
room. 

"  Yes,  in  a  small  house.  Here  there  is  no 
need." 

I  wanted  to  tell  her  that  it  was  not  need  that 
made  us  share  things.  But  though  poor  Betty 
looked  cast  down,  all  I  said  was  that  I  should 
come  to  her  in  plenty  of  time  to  do  her  hair. 

"  A  maid  will  do  that,"  my  aunt  said. 

But  I  managed  to  tell  her  quite  firmly  that  I 
must  show  the  maid  how. 

Aunt  Josephine  looked  at  me  a  moment. 

She  doesn't  like  me,  I  thought.  And  I  felt 
uncomfortable. 

As  she  followed  her  out,  Betty  made  a  sign 
over  her  shoulder  that  I  was  to  come  now. 

But  after  that  look  Aunt  Josephine  had  given 
me,  I  felt  I  must  walk  warily.  So  I  only  signalled 
back,  as  much  as  to  say  "  by-and-by." 

***** 

A  woman  in  a  cap  and  apron  brought  me  tea. 

I  asked  if  she  would  mind  taking  the  tray  to 
my  sister's  room  so  we  could  have  tea  together. 

The  woman  said  madam's  orders  were  that  the 
young  ladies  should  rest.  I  reflected  that  Bettina 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE  259 

would  probably  rest  better  if  she  did  not  talk,  so 
I  said  no  more. 

The  woman  had  a  face  like  wood. 

Two  of  the  big  footmen  brought  in  our  little 
trunk.  I  got  out  Bettina's  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  and  asked  the  wooden  woman  to  take 
then  to  my  sister. 

I  was  so  tired  with  all  the  excitement  that  I 
went  to  sleep  on  the  pink  satin  sofa. 

The  wooden  woman  waked  me. 

"  Time  to  dress,"  she  said,  and  she  had  the  bath 
ready.  I  looked  round  for  our  little  trunk. 

"  Oh,  you  couldn't  have  a  thing  like  that  stand- 
ing about  in  here,"  the  wooden  woman  said. 

And,  indeed,  I  had  felt,  as  I  saw  it  coming  in, 
how  out  of  keeping  its  shabbiness  was  with  all  the 
satin  damask,  the  gilding,  and  the  lace. 

She  had  done  the  unpacking,  the  wooden 
woman  said.  And  there  were  my  white  satin 
frock  and  silk  stockings  on  the  bed.  "  But  half 
the  things  in  the  trunk  are  my  sister's,"  I  said. 

She  had  taken  the  other  young  lady  what  was 
needed,  the  woman  answered.  And  whatever  I 
wanted  I  was  to  ring  for. 

I  felt  that  this  was  no  doubt  the  way  of  London 


26o  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

ladies.  But  I  longed  for  our  shabby  little  trunk. 
It  seemed  the  last  link  with  home.  I  looked 
round  the  beautiful  room  with  a  sense  of  distaste. 

This  feeling  must  be  the  homesickness  I  had 
read  about. 

I  went  to  the  window.  The  lines  that  divided 
the  long  panes  into  panels,  the  lines  that  I  had 
thought  of  as  purely  decorative  were  rods  of 
iron. 

"  You'll  be  late,"  the  wooden  woman  said,  and 
she  drew  the  silk  curtains  over  the  lace  ones,  and 
switched  on  the  electric  light. 

She  came  back  while  I  was  brushing  my  hair. 
She  offered  to  do  it  for  me.  I  was  so  glad  to  be 
able  to  do  it  myself.  I  would  not  have  liked  her 
to  touch  me. 

I  hurried  with  my  dressing  so  that  I  could  go 
to  Bettina. 

The  woman  tried  to  prevent  me.  But  I  was 
firm.  "  Show  me  the  way,  will  you?  Or  shall  I 
ask  someone  else?" 

She  hesitated,  and  then  seemed  to  think  she 
had  best  do  as  she  was  told. 

Half-way  down  a  long,  soft-carpeted  passage 
she  asked  me  to  wait  an  instant. 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE  261 

She  knocked  at  one  of  the  many  doors. 

I  heard  my  aunt's  voice  inside.  And  whisper- 
ing. Only  one  of  the  electric  lights  was  turned  on 
here,  in  the  corridor.  The  air  was  heavy.  The 
"  Aunt  Josephine  "  scent,  foreign,  dizzily  sweet, 
was  everywhere.  A  light-headed  feeling  came 
over  me.  I  longed  for  an  open  window.  They 
must  all  be  shut  as  well  as  curtained.  Between 
the  many  doors,  paintings  were  hung.  I  had  been 
vaguely  conscious  of  these  as  we  came  up.  I  saw 
now  they  were  pictures  of  women.  Most  of  them 
seemed  to  be  in  different  stages  of  the  bath.  One 
was  asleep  in  a  strange  position,  with  nothing  on. 
I  was  going  past  that  one  when  I  noticed  the 
opposite  door  ajar.  I  stopped  and  listened. 

"  Bettina,"  I  said  softly. 

A  voice  very  different  from  Bettina's  answered 
in  some  language  I  did  not  know.  I  started  back 
and,  as  I  was  going  on,  the  door  was  opened 
wide.  A  lady  stood  on  the  threshold  in  a  flood  of 
light.  A  lady  with  a  dazzling  complexion.  Her 
lips  were  so  brightly  red,  they  looked  bloody. 
She  had  diamonds  in  her  ears,  and  a  diamond 
necklace  on  a  neck  as  white  and  smooth  as  china. 
Her  yellow  hair  was  disarranged  as  though  she 


262  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

had  been  asleep.     She  was  wearing  a  kimono  of 
scarlet  silk  embroidered  in  silver. 

She  asked  me  something,  not  in  French,  not 
German,  and  not,  I  think,  Italian.  I  said  I  was 
afraid  I  did  not  understand. 

My  aunt  came  noiseless  down  the  long  cor- 
ridor, and  the  foreign  lady  hastily  shut  her  door. 

This  other  guest  must  be  some  very  great  per- 
son! 

My  aunt  was  dressed  for  dinner  in  a  gown  all 
covered  with  little  shining  scales,  like  a  snake's 
skin. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  said,  in  an  odd 
tone  as  if  she  had  caught  me  in  something  under- 
hand. I  explained  that  I  was  looking  for  Bet- 
tina.  And  I  found  courage  to  say  that  I  was 
sorry  our  rooms  were  so  far  apart. 

She  took  no  notice  of  that.  "  You  will  see 
Bettina  at  dinner,"  she  said,  and  it  struck  me  she 
could  be  very  stern. 

I  felt  my  heart  begin  to  beat,  but  I  managed 
to  say  that  I  was  sure  Betty  would  wait  for  me  to 
help  her  to  dress. 

"  I  have  told  you  she  will  have  a  maid  to  do  all 
that  is  necessary." 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE  263 

"  I  hope  you  won't  mind,"  I  said,  "  just  for  to- 
night. It  is  always  my  mother,  or  me,  who 
dresses  Bettina.  .  .  ." 

She  seemed  to  consider.  I  said  to  myself 
again :  "  Oh,  dear,  she  doesn't  like  me  at  all." 

"  Take  her,  Curran,"  she  said.  The  hard' 
faced  woman  came  and  piloted  me  round  the  an- 
gle of  the  corridor  to  Betty's  door. 

We  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  and  laughed  and 
kissed,  as  though  we  had  been  parted  for  weeks. 

***** 

I  was  determined  not  to  let  her  know  that  Aunt 
Josephine  and  I  were  not  liking  one  another.  I 
only  said  I  didn't  like  her  taste  in  pictures. 

Betty  tried  to  stand  up  for  her.  She  reminded 
me  of  the  statues  and  casts  from  the  antique  at 
Lord  Helmstone's.  She  asked  me  suddenly  if 
I  wasn't  well.  I  complained  a  little  of  the  air.  I 
thought  we  might  have  the  window  open  while  I 
did  her  hair.  But  Betty  said,  no.  She  had  tried, 
and  found  she  didn't  understand  London  fasten- 
ings. So  she  had  rung  for  the  maid,  and  the  maid 
had  said:  "This  isn't  the  country" — and  that 
people  didn't  like  their  windows  open  in  London. 


264  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Betty  thought  it  quite  reasonable.  London  dust 
and  "  blacks  "  would  soon  ruin  this  pretty  white 
room. 

Betty  defended  everything. 

When  I  complained  that  the  scent  everywhere 
was  making  me  headachy,  Betty  said  she  liked  it. 
She  wished  our  mother  would  let  us  use  scent. 
The  only  thing  Betty  found  the  least  fault  with 
was  the  way  I  was  doing  her  hair.  She  wanted 
it  put  up  "  in  honour  of  London."  But  she  looked 
such  a  darling  with  her  short  curls  lying  on  her 
neck  that  I  was  doing  it  in  the  everyday  way. 
And  there  wasn't  time  now  for  anything  more 
than  to  fasten  on  the  little  wreath,  for  the  woman 
came  to  say  madam  had  sent  up  for  us.  So  I 
hurried  Betty  into  her  frock,  the  woman  watching 
out  of  those  hard  eyes  of  hers.  Nobody  in  the 
whole  of  Betty's  life  had  looked  at  her  like  that. 
The  woman  didn't  want  us  to  stop  even  to  find  a 
handkerchief.  And  after  all,  just  as  Betty  was 
coming,  the  woman  said:  "Wait  a  minute,"  and 
wanted  to  shut  the  door.  I  stood  on  the  threshold 
waiting.  A  gentleman  was  coming  upstairs. 
With  his  hat  on !  He  stared  at  me  as  he  went  by, 
and  so  did  the  footman  who  followed  him.  I 


AUNT   JOSEPHINE  265 

drew  back  into  the  room  and  the  woman  shut  the 
door. 

"  Who  was  that  gentleman?  "  I  asked.  She 
seemed  not  to  hear.  So  I  asked  again. 

"  That — oh,  that  is  the  doctor,"  she  said.  Nat- 
urally we  asked  if  somebody  was  ill. 

"  Not  very,"  she  answered  in  such  a  peculiar 
way  we  said  no  more. 

She  stood  and  watched  us  as  we  went  down- 
stairs. 

***** 

"  Our  first  London  dinner-party,"  Bettina  whis- 
pered. 

We  took  hands.  We  were  shaking  with  excite- 
ment. 

We  saw  ourselves  going  by  in  the  mirrors  be- 
tween the  golden  columns. 

The  whole  place  was  full  of  tall  girls  in  white, 
and  little  girls  in  apple-green,  wearing  forget-me- 
not  wreaths  in  their  hair. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AT    DINNER 

DOWN  in  the  lower  hall  were  the  men-servants 
with  their  watchful  eyes. 

They  showed  us  the  drawing-room  door. 

As  we  came  in,  I  was  conscious  again  of  Aunt 
Josephine's  appraising  look.  Then  of  the  elabo- 
rate grey  head  turning  towards  an  old  man,  as  if  to 
ask:  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  my  nieces?  He 
had  a  red  blotchy  face.  The  kind  of  red  that  is 
crossed  by  little  purple  lines  like  the  tracery  of 
very  tortuous  rivers  on  a  map.  The  lines  ran  zig- 
zagging into  his  nose,  which  was  thick  at  the  end, 
round  and  shining.  He  had  no  hair  except  a 
sandy  fringe,  and  his  eyes,  which  had  no  lashes, 
looked  as  if  he  had  a  cold.  He  was  introduced 
as  "  an  old  friend  of  mine  " — but  she  forgot  to 
tell  us  his  name.  We  heard  him  called  Colonel. 
Through  all  the  scent  we  could  not  help  noticing 
that  he  smelled  of  brandy. 

I  looked  round  for  the  beautiful  foreign  lady. 
266 


AT   DINNER  267 

But  I  was  prepared  to  find  her  late,  after  seeing 
her  idling  at  her  door,  in  a  dressing-gown,  so 
near  the  dinner-hour. 

There  was  only  one  other  person.  A  man  of 
about  thirty-six.  Good-looking  I  thought — and 
not  happy.  He  had  a  clear  face,  quite  without 
colour.  The  skin  very  smooth  and  tight.  His 
dry  brown  hair  was  thinning  on  the  crown.  He 
had  nice  hands.  I  noticed  that  when  he  stroked 
his  close-fitting  moustache.  I  did  not  like  him 
because  of  his  manner.  I  did  not  know  what  was 
wrong  with  it.  Perhaps  he  was  only  absent- 
minded.  But  when  I  tried  to  imagine  him  talking 
to  my  mother  I  could  not. 

He  was  introduced  first  to  Bettina.  The  others 
treated  him  as  if  he  were  very  important.  They 
talked  about  his  new  Rolls  Royce,  which  turned 
out  to  be  a  motor-car.  The  Colonel  tried  to  get 
him  to  say  how  many  times  he  had  been  fined  for 
"  exceeding  speed  limit."  Then  they  talked 
about  "  The  Tartar."  How  he  was  always  late. 
It  would  be  a  chance  if  he  came  at  all.  Aunt 
Josephine  was  positive  he  would  appear.  "  I 
wired  to  say  it  was  all  right." 

"  Just  as  well,  perhaps,  if  he  doesn't  come  to- 


268  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

night,"  the  good-looking  man  said.  He  would 
be  in  a  devil  of  a  temper. 

Betty  asked  why  would  he?  They  said  because 
his  favourite  horse  had  been  "  scratched."  Betty 
thought  it  was  nice  of  him  to  be  so  fond  of  his 
horse.  But  if  it  was  only  a  scratch 

We  did  not  know  why  they  laughed.  But  we 
laughed  too.  We  tried  not  to  show  how  unin- 
telligible the  talk  was.  I  listened  very  hard.  I 
felt  like  a  learner  in  a  foreign  tongue.  I  under- 
stood the  words  but  not  the  sentences. 

The  Colonel  looked  at  his  watch  in  a  discon- 
tented way.  Then  we  went  in  to  dinner. 

I  don't  think  we  sat  in  the  order  Aunt  Josephine 
had  meant.  But  the  absent-minded  man,  who 
had  taken  me  in,  refused  to  change,  or  to  let  me. 
I  had  the  old  Colonel  on  my  left.  Aunt  Jose- 
phine of  course  at  the  head.  The  empty  place 
was  between  her  and  Betty. 

The  table  was  glittering  and  magnificent.  We 
had  little  helpings  of  strange,  strong-tasting  food 
before  the  soup.  And  caviar. 

"  You  like  caviar?  "  the  Colonel  said. 

I  said  I  didn't  know,  for  in  my  heart  I  felt  it 
looked  repulsive. 


AT    DINNER  269 

"  Don't  know  caviar?  " 

I  said  of  course  I  had  heard  of  it.  He  asked 
where.  And  I  said,  "  In  Shakespeare."  The  old 
Colonel  choked,  and  they  all 'laughed  to  see  how 
apoplectic  he  looked — all  except  Betty  and  me. 

I  caught  Betty's  eye.  She  had  that  fiery-rose 
in  her  cheeks.  I  felt  excited,  too,  and  "  strange." 
But  I  hoped  they  didn't  notice.  Betty  and  I  had 
agreed  that  we  must  try  not  to  show  how  unused 
we  were  to  the  ways  of  a  great  London  house. 
So  I  made  conversation.  I  asked  about  the  ab- 
sent guest. 

My  good-looking  man  pretended  to  be  annoyed. 
He  called,  in  his  slightly  husky  voice,  across  the 
table  to  Aunt  Josephine :  "  Already  she  wants  to 
talk  about  The  Tartar ! "  I  explained  that  I 
meant  the  foreign  lady — the  very  beautiful  lady 
I  had  seen  upstairs  looking  out  of  her  door. 

Again  my  man  exchanged  glances  with  Aunt 
Josephine.  He  was  smiling  disagreeably.  Aunt 
Josephine  did  not  smile  at  all.  But  the  old 
Colonel  laughed  his  croaking  laugh,  and  said  the 
lady  upstairs  expected  people  to  go  to  her. 

"Does  she  expect  dinner  to  go  to  her,  too?" 
Betty  asked.  And  something  in  their  faces  made 


270  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Betty  blush,  though  she  didn't  know  why,  as  I 
saw.  I  believed  they  were  teasing  Betty,  just  for 
fun,  and  to  see  that  beautiful  colour  in  her  cheeks 
flicker  and  deepen. 

So  I  leaned  towards  her,  and  across  the  flowers 
and  the  dazzling  lights  I  told  her  the  foreign  lady 
was  not  very  well.  That  was  why  she  was  not 
coming  down. 

The  Colonel  asked  me  why  I  thought  the  lady 
wasn't  well.  So  I  said :  "  Because  I  saw  the  doc- 
tor going  up  to  her." 

They  were  all  quite  still  for  a  second  or  two. 
I  looked  at  Aunt  Josephine.  Why  was  it  wrong 
to  mention  the  doctor's  visit?  Was  she  afraid  of 
making  these  friends  of  the  beautiful  lady  anxious 
about  her?  My  man  still  was  smiling,  but  not 
pleasantly.  I  couldn't  tell  whether  the  strange 
noises  the  Colonel  made  were  choking  or  laugh- 
ing. But  I  felt  more  and  more  miserably  shy; 
And  I  had  no  clear  idea  of  why  I  should  feel  so — 
unless  it  was  that  nothing  these  people  said  meant 
what  it  seemed  to  mean. 

I  could  see  that  Betty  was  bewildered,  too. 

We  knew  we  should  feel  strange;  we  did  not 
know  we  should  feel  like  this. 


AT   DINNER  271 

I  was  thankful  when  they  all  turned  round  and 
called  out.  "  The  Tartar  "  had  come,  after  all. 

He  made  no  apology  for  being  late,  nor  for  not 
having  dressed.  He  strolled  in  as  if  the  place 
belonged  to  him — a  great  broad-shouldered  young 
man  in  a  frock-coat.  He  had  a  round,  black, 
cannon-ball  of  a  head,  and  his  eyebrows  nearly 
joined.  His  moustache  was  like  a  little  blacking- 
brush  laid  back  against  the  lip,  with  the  bristles 
sticking  straight  out.  But  he  seemed  to  be  mak- 
ing this  effect  deliberately,  by  pushing  out  his 
mouth  like  a  pouting  child;  or,  even  more,  like  a 
person  with  swollen  lips.  I  felt  sure  I  could  not 
have  seen  him  before;  but  there  was  something 
oddly  familiar  about  him. 

He  nodded  to  the  others. 

When  Aunt  Josephine  said,  "  My  nieces,"  he 
said,  "  Oh,"  stared  a  moment,  and  then,  as  he 
lounged  into  the  empty  place,  said  it  had  been 
a  rotten  race.  I  thought  how  astonished  my 
mother  would  have  been  at  such  behaviour. 
Betty  must  have  been  thinking  of  her,  too,  for 
she  put  on  our  mother's  manner.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful manner,  but  it  sat  oddly  on  my  little  sister; 
it  made  her  seem  more  self-possessed  than  she 


272  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

was.  She  turned  and  said:  "  I  think  you  must  be 
Mr.  Whitby-Dawson." 

The  young  man  stared. 

Everybody  stared. 

He  turned  sharply  from  Betty  to  his  hostess. 
She  shook  her  head.  But  the  yellow  part  of  her 
big  eyes  had  turned  reddish.  She  looked  very 
strange. 

A  creepy  feeling  came  over  me. 

I  remembered  she  had  been  "  most  eccentric  " 
twenty  years  ago.  Was  eccentricity  the  sort  of 
thing  that  grew  worse  as  people  grew  older? 

I  looked  round  at  the  company  and  met  the 
eyes  of  the  neighbour  on  my  right.  They  were 
unhappy  eyes ;  but  they  reassured  me. 

"What  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head?" 
Aunt  Josephine  was  asking  Betty. 

"  Because,"  Betty  said,  and  she  looked  at  the 
young  man  again,  "  only  because  I  saw  so  many 
of  your — of  Mr.  Whitby-Dawson's  photo- 
graphs  " 

"Really?"  the  young  man  said,  in  a  bored 
voice.  ;<  That  was,  no  doubt,  a  great  privilege. 
My  name's  Williams." 

In  her  embarrassment  Betty  turned  to  the  man 


AT   DINNER  275 

who  sat  between  us.  "  He  has  even  the  little 
scar,"  she  said,  like  a  person  defending  herself. 
"  Mr.  Whitby-Dawson  got  his  scar  in  a  duel  with 
a  student  at  Heidelberg.  He  studied  at  the  Uni- 
versity there  part  of  one  year " 

"Studied  duelling?"  the  Colonel  chuckled. 
Our  absent-minded  man  was  not  absent-minded 
any  more.  He  was  listening,  with  a  look  I  could 
not  understand,  as  if  he  took  a  malicious  pleasure 
in  poor  Betty's  mistake.  Such  a  trifling  slip  to 
have  taken  the  young  man  for  Guy  Whitby-Daw- 
son, and  yet  it  seemed  to  have  put  the  company 
out  of  tune.  Or  perhaps  it  was  the  loss  of  the 
race.  All  except  my  man  seemed  to  care  very 
much  about  the  lost  race.  The  Tartar,  in  his  an- 
noyed voice,  told  his  hostess  and  the  Colonel  how 
it  happened.  He  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  table, 
and  almost  turned  his  back  on  poor  Bettina. 

I  thought  I  could  see  that  my  man  seemed  not 
to  like  The  Tartar;  and  that  gave  me  a  kindlier 
feeling  towards  him;  I  wondered  what  had  made 
him  unhappy. 

I  felt  I  wanted  to  justify  Bettina  to  him. 

I  felt,  too,  that  she  would  recover  herself  sooner 
if  we  broke  the  silence  at  our  end.  So  I  said — in 


274  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

a  voice  too  low,  I  thought,  for  the  others  to  hear 
— that  I  also  had  noticed  the  resemblance  to  Mr. 
Whitby-Dawson.  Lower  still,  he  asked  me  how 
we  came  "  to  hear  of  Mr. — of — the  gentleman  in 
question."  Then  Betty  and  I  between  us  told 
about  Hermione  Helmstone's  engagement — only 
we  did  not,  of  course,  give  her  name. 

"The  faithless  Whitby!"  our  man  said,  with 
the  tail  of  his  eye  on  the  young  gentleman  op- 
posite. As  for  him,  he  tried  to  go  on  talking 
about  "  Black  Friar,"  as  though  he  heard  nothing 
of  the  history  being  retailed  on  the  other  side. 
But  I  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  listening  all  the 
time. 

Bettina's  loyalty  to  Hermione  made  her  object 
to  hearing  Guy  called  faithless.  "  They  would 
have  had  only  £400  a  year  between  them.  And 
he  said — Mr.  Whitby-Dawson  said — they  couldn't 
possibly  live  on  that.  He  was  miserable,  poor 
man!" 

"  I  should  say  so !     Poor  and  miserable." 

"  Oh,  you  laugh,"  Bettina  protested.  "  But  I 
saw  a  heart-broken  letter  about  the  poverty  that 
kept  them  apart  and  condemned  him  '  to  run  in 
single  harness.'  " 


AT   DINNER  275 

"  *  Single  harness !  '  the  husky  voice  said. 
And  he  repeated  it:  "  *  Single  harness,'  eh?  " 

Bettina  was  recovering  her  spirits.  She  said 
something  about  Duncombe.  And  I  don't  know 
what  reminded  her  of  the  collie-dog  story;  but 
she  told  it  very  well,  though  she  did  "  pile  it  on." 
She  made  me  out  an  immense  heroine,  and  I  am 
afraid  I  looked  sheepish. 

The  husky  voice  said  "  Good !  "  and  "  Pretty 
cool."  The  story  seemed  to  remind  him  of  some- 
thing. He  looked  at  his  plate,  and  he  looked  at 
Bettina  and  me. 

Betty  was  amused  at  having  made  me  feel 
shy,  and  she  laughed  that  bubbling  laugh  of 
hers. 

The  Tartar  turned  his  head. 

He  did  not  take  away  his  elbow.  But  he 
looked  over  his  shoulder  down  on  Bettina's 
apricot-coloured  hair.  The  fillet  showed  the  shape 
of  her  head.  It  defined  the  satiny  crown,  where 
the  hair  lay  as  close  as  a  red-gold  skull-cap.  The 
forget-me-nots  and  the  little  green  leaves  held  all 
smooth  and  tight  except  the  heavy,  shining  rings. 
They  fell  out  and  lay  on  her  neck. 

The  Tartar  stopped  talking  about  the  race. 


276  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

He  still  ate  his  food  condescendingly — with  one 
hand.  But  he  drank  with  great  good-will. 

He  called  to  the  butler,  who  had  been  going 
round  with  a  gold-necked  bottle  in  a  napkin.  He 
was  to  come  back,  The  Tartar  said,  and  fill  the 
ladies'  glasses. 

I  said  no.     Bettina  said  she,  too,  drank  water. 

The  Tartar  said  "  Nonsense !  " — quite  as  though 
the  matter  were  for  him  to  decide.  The  servant 
filled  Bettina's  tall,  vaselike  glass.  Bettina  looked 
alarmed.  Already  she  had  displeased  this  dread- 
ful Tartar  once. 

"  Ought  I  ?  "  she  telegraphed  across  to  me.  I 
shook  my  head. 

"  There  is  one  woman  in  London  " — The  Tar- 
tar made  a  motion  towards  the  head  of  the  table 
— "  one  woman  who's  got  a  decent  cellar."  The 
Tartar  was  almost  genial.  He  raised  his  glass  to 
my  aunt.  "  I  approve  of  the  new  coiffure,  too. 
RippinM" 

The  Colonel  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  the 
subject  of  the  wine.  '  Take  an  old  man's  advice," 
he  said  to  me.  "  It's  a  chancy  sort  of  world. 
Make  sure  of  a  little  certain  bliss."  He  lifted 
his  own  glass  and  drained  it. 


AT    DINNER  277, 

The  Tartar  said  something  to  Bettina  which  I 
could  not  hear.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  kind 
of  wonder  in  her  eyes,  and  with  that  "  fiery  rose  " 
quite  suddenly  overspreading  her  face  again.  She 
put  out  her  hand  to  the  tall  glass,  hesitated,  and 
then  looked  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Perhaps 
Bettina  saw  what  all  of  a  sudden  was  clear  to  me. 
Aunt  Josephine  was  like  a  huge  grey  hawk.  The 
head  craning  out;  the  narrow  forehead,  all  grey 
crest;  the  face  falling  away  from  the  beak.  How 
she  had  changed  from  the  days  when  she  had  a 
double  chin!  The  tilt  of  the  outstretched  head 
was  exactly  like  a  bird's.  Watching  sideways — - 
watching  .  .  .  for  what? 

The  eye  made  me  shrink.  It  made  Bettina  set 
her  lips,  obedient,  to  the  glass.  She  looked  apolo- 
getic over  the  rim  at  me. 

Mine  stood  untouched. 

"  I  see  you  have  a  will  of  your  own,"  the  voice 
on  my  right  said  in  my  ear. 

The  London  way  seemed  to  be  that  ladies  did 
not  leave  the  table  while  men  smoked.  The  talk 
was  about  wines,  but  it  flagged.  The  Tartar  kept 
looking  at  Bettina.  The  fitful  colour  in  her  cheeks 
had  paled  again.  The  scent  of  flowers,  and  that 


278  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

other  all-pervading  perfume,  mixed  with  the  to 
bacco,  was  making  Bettina  faint. 

My  man  noticed  it.  "  You  aren't  accustomed 
to  smoke,"  he  said  to  Bettina,  and  he  twisted  his 
cigar  round  on  his  fruit-plate  till  he  crushed  out 
the  burning.  But  the  others  took  no  notice. 

I  was  sure  Bettina  was  trying  hard  to  throw  off 
her  oppression.  I  thought  of  our  mother;  and 
the  thought  of  her  sent  sharp  aching  through  me. 
Bettina  and  I  looked  at  each  other.  I  knew  by 
her  lip  she  had  great  trouble  not  to  cry. 

"  Do  you  think,"  I  whispered  to  my  man,  "  you 
could  ask  to  have  a  window  opened?  " 

He  said  we  would  be  going  into  the  drawing- 
room  soon.  "  Drink  that  black  coffee,"  he  recom- 
mended. 

He  seemed  not  unkind,  so  I  tried  to  think  why 
he  would  not  do  so  small  a  thing  for  us  as  ask 
to  have  a  window  opened.  "  Are  the  downstairs 
windows  barred  with  iron,  too?  " 

He  looked  sharply  at  me. 

"  I  believe  so,"  he  said. 

I  thought  it  must  be  because  of  all  the  silver 
and  valuables  in  the  house.  But  he  glanced  at  me 
again,  as  if  he  thought  I  was  still  wondering  and 


AT    DINNER  279 

might  ask  someone  else.  Then  he  said  he  had 
heard  "  it  used  to  be  a  private  madhouse." 

"  This  house?" 

He  nodded. 

"  You  needn't  say  I  told  you." 

That,  then,  was  what  I  had  been  feeling.  The 
poor  mad  people  who  used  to  be  shut  up  here — 
they  had  left  this  uncanny  influence  behind.  A 
strangeness  and  a  strain. 

The  Colonel  was  speaking  irritably  to  one  of 
the  footmen.  Something  had  gone  wrong  with 
an  electric-light  bulb  over  the  sideboard. 

"  Send  for  Waterson  to-morrow  to  attend  to 
that!" 

No  one  but  me  seemed  at  all  surprised  to 
hear  the  Colonel  giving  orders  in  my  aunt's 
house. 

As  I  sat  there  in  the  midst  of  all  the  contending 
scents,  with  the  soft  clash  of  silver,  glass,  and 
voices  in  my  ears,  a  train  of  ideas  raced  through 
my  brain  as  crazy  as  any  that  could  have  been 
harboured  here  in  the  days  when  .  .  . 

The  letters  that  had  come  out  of  this  house 
Eric  had  called  "  demented." 

All  the  windows  were  still  barred. 


280  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

What  if  it  were  a  private  madhouse  still! 
Before  my  eyes  the  watchful  big  footmen  turned 
into  keepers  to  the  Grey  Hawk  and  to  the  lady 
upstairs.  The  doctor — he  was  for  those  too 
dangerous  to  trust  downstairs.  That  was  why 
they  had  laughed  at  my  inquiry — such  callousness 
had  familiarity  bred.  The  Colonel  might  be  the 
proprietor  of  the  house.  My  aunt  was  well  off. 
No  doubt  they  humoured  her.  With  a  keeper 
dressed  like  a  footman,  they  allowed  her  certain 
liberties — to  write  crazy  letters  in  her  harmless 
intervals  .  .  .  friends  to  dine  .  .  .  nieces  to 
divert  her.  They  would  do  almost  anything  to 
keep  that  red  look  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  don't  understand,"  I  be- 
gan to  say  to  the  man  at  my  side. 

But  he  was  nervous  too,  and  jumped  down  my 
throat:  "  Don't  ask  me  questions!  I  never  passed 
an  examination  in  my  life,"  he  pulled  out  his 
watch.  "  And  I've  got  an  engagement  to  keep  in 
exactly  three  minutes'  time." 

No  wonder  I  stared.  One  man  comes  when 
dinner  is  half  done,  and  one  wants  to  go  before 
the  hostess  had  risen.  For  my  part  I  wanted  him 
not  to  go  ...  I  told  him  so. 


AT    DINNER  281 

"  Why?  "  he  turned  suddenly  and  faced  me. 

I  said  it  was  perhaps  because  I  felt  I  knew  him 
best.  "  Anyway,"  I  persisted,  "  don't  go !  "  He 
hesitated.  "  Please  don't  go,"  I  said.  I  was  re- 
lieved when  he  said,  very  well,  he  would  "  see  it 
out."  For  I  knew,  had  he  gone,  my  aunt  would 
think  I  had  driven  him  away. 

There  was  a  rustle,  and  I  saw  Aunt  Josephine 
rising.  My  man  left  me  instantly.  He  went  and 
opened  the  door.  As  we  filed  out  he  turned  to- 
wards my  aunt.  I  heard  him  whisper,  "  Je  vous 
fais  mes  compliments,  madame."  He  looked  at 
Betty. 

Aunt  Josephine  nodded.  "  But  .  .  ."  her 
face  changed. 

What  was  wrong?  For  whom  was  that 
"  but  "  ?  I  turned  quickly  and  caught  the  yellow 
eyes  leaving  my  back.  I  was  "  but."  But  why? 
What  had  I  done?  The  Colonel  talked  to  Betty 
and  The  Tartar,  as  he  led  the  way  back  to  the 
drawing-room.  The  other  man  still  was  behind 
with  my  aunt.  He  seemed  to  be  reassuring  her. 
His  curious  low  voice  kept  going  off  the  register. 
At  a  break  I  heard  the  words :  "  Doucement " 
enunciated  with  an  emphasis  that  carried. 


282  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  kept  thinking  how  all  the  softly-draped  win- 
dows had  iron  bars  behind  the  silk. 

In  the  drawing-room,  my  aunt  was  saying  to 
The  Tartar,  "  Oh,  yes,  Bettina  sings  and  dances." 

"  She  sings,"  I  said. 

"Don't  you  skirt-dance?"  The  Tartar  asked. 

Bettina  looked  sorry.  "  I  can  dance  ordinary 
dances,"  she  said.  "  But  what  sort  is  a  skirt- 
dance?" 

The  men  made  a  semicircle  round  her  to  ex- 
plain. 

Betty  said  she  hadn't  done  any  skirt-dances  since 
she  was  a  little  girl. 

"Oh,  and  what  are  you  now?"  the  Colonel 
said,  grinning  horribly. 

They  made  Bettina  tell  about  the  action-songs 
our  mother  had  taught  us  in  the  nursery.  They 
asked  her  to  do  one. 

Of  course  Bettina  refused.  "  They're  only  for 
children,"  she  said  with  that  little  air  borrowed 
from  our  mother. 

The  Tartar  threw  back  his  bullet  head  and 
roared.  The  Colonel  said  they  were  sick,  in  Lon- 
don, of  sophisticated  dancing.  What  they  wanted 
was  Bettina's  sort.  Bettina  shook  her  head. 


AT    DINNER  283 

The  Grey  Hawk  said  it  was  too  soon  after 
dinner.  But  they  went  across  the  room  towards 
the  piano. 

I  was  following,  when  the  man  who  had  taken 
me  In  to  dinner  said:  "This  is  a  comfortable 
chair."  So  I  sat  down. 

He  said  something  about  the  strangeness  of 
London  "  just  at  first."  It  would  pass  away. 

I  told  him  I  hoped  Bettina  would  find  it  so. 
As  for  me,  I  was  only  staying  till  to-morrow. 

He  looked  so  surprised  that  I  explained  I  had 
to  go  back  and  take  care  of  my  mother. 

"  You  have  never  been  to  London  since  you 
were  a  child — and  you  come  all  this  way  just  for 
a  few  hours?  " 

"  I  came  to  take  care  of  Betty,"  I  said.     "  She 
has  never  travelled  alone." 
.     He  looked  at  me:  "And  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  either.  To-morrow  will  be  the 
first  time.  But  then,  I  am  older." 

He  said  nothing  for  several  moments.  I  looked 
across  the  room  to  where  I  could  see  the  back  of 
Bettina's  head,  between  the  bare  crown  of  the 
Colonel  and  The  Tartar's  black  bullet.  The 
Tartar  was  bending  over  towards  Bettina.  Aunt 


284  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Josephine  sat  near  them,  facing  the  door,  and  us. 

My  man  looked  up  suddenly  and  saw  the  eyes 
of  the  Grey  Hawk  on  us. 

"We  must  talk!  "  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "or 
they  will  think  we  aren't  getting  on.  That  isn't 
a  comfortable  chair  after  all."  He  stood  up.  I 
said  it  was  quite  comfortable.  While  he  was  in- 
sisting, a  servant  came  in  to  speak  to  my  aunt.  I 
caught  a  glimpse  through  the  door  of  a  footman 
going  upstairs  with  a  short,  fattish  young  man. 
Too  young,  I  thought,  to  be  another  doctor. 

We  went  to  the  end  of  the  room,  and  we  sat  on 
a  sofa  near  the  fireplace — one  of  those  sofas  you 
sink  down  in  till  you  feel  half  buried.  I  didn't 
like  to  say  I  hated  it,  for  he  was  taking  so  much 
trouble.  He  put  a  great  down  cushion  at  my  back, 
as  if  I  were  an  invalid. 

'  There!  Now,  can  you  sit  quite  still  for  a  few 
minutes?  As  still  as  if  I  were  taking  your  pic- 
ture?" I  said  I  supposed  I  could.  "And  must 
I  look  pleasant?"  I  laughed.  He  hesitated  and 
then:  "How  good  are  your  nerves?"  he  asked. 

'  Very  good,"  I  boasted. 

But  he  was  grave. 

"  Have  you  ever  fainted?  " 


AT    DINNER  285 

"  Never !  "  I  said,  a  little  indignantly. 

"  Could  you  hear  something  very  unexpected, 
even  horrible,  and  not  cry  out?  " 

"  You  know  something!  "  I  thought  of  an  ac- 
cident to  my  mother.  '  You  have  news  for 
me.  .  .  ." 

"  Careful,"  he  said  in  a  sharp  whisper.  "  You 
told  me  you  could  keep  perfectly  still.  If  you 
can't  I  won't  go  on."  I  begged  him  to  go  on,  and 
I  kept  my  face  a  blank.  He  turned  his  head 
slightly  and  took  in  the  group  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room.  He  sat  so  a  moment,  with  his  eyes 
still  turned  away,  while  he  said:  "Everything — 
more  than  life,  depends  on  your  self-control  dur- 
ing the  next  few  minutes." 

I  sat  staring  at  him. 

"Have  you  any  idea  where  you  are?" — and 
still  he  looked  not  at  me  but  towards  the  others. 

My  first  bewilderment  was  giving  way  to  fear. 
No  fear  now  of  anything  he  could  tell  me.  Fear 
of  the  man  himself.  I  saw  it  all.  Not  that  iron- 
grey  woman  who  had  left  the  room  with  the  serv- 
ant, not  the  brilliant  lady  upstairs,  but  the  person 
who  had  set  me  thinking  wild  thoughts  at  dinner 
about  barred  windows  and  private  lunatic  asylums. 


286  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

The  man  sitting  not  three  feet  way  from  me — 
was  mad. 

I  calculated  the  distance  between  me  and  the 
other  group,  while  I  answered  him :  "  I  am  at  my 
aunt's — Mrs.  Harborough's." 

"  Where  does  your  aunt  live?  " 

"At  1 60  Lowndes  Square." 
{  You  are  twenty  minutes  from  Lowndes  Square. 
You  are  in  one  of  the  most  infamous  houses  in 
Europe." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE   GREY   HAWK 

MINUTES  seemed  to  go  by.  Vague  hints  from 
servants,  things  I  had  read  in  the  papers — and 
still  I  sat  there,  not  moving  by  so  much  as  a 
hair. 

He  was  looking  at  me  now  and  telling  me  to 
"keep  cool."  And  then:  "I  suppose  you  know 
there  are  such  places "  He  interrupted  him- 
self to  say:  "Remember!  A  careless  look  or 
move  would  mean — well,  it  would  mean  ruin. 
Now  do  you  understand?  " 

Beyond  a  doubt  I  did.  If  I  moved  or  cried  for 
help,  he  would  kill  me  before  my  aunt  could  get 
back;  before  I  could  cross  the  room.  Though 
why  he  should  wish  to  kill  me  I  could  form  no 
idea. 

"  You  must  have  time  to  recover,"  he  said,  in 
that  muted,  uneven  voice.  "  I  will  shield  you 
while  you  pull  yourself  together."  He  had  bent 
forward  till  his  shoulders  shut  out  my  view  of  the 
group  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

I  shrank  further  back  into  the  cushions.  But: 
287 


288  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"I  have  myself  in  hand,  now,"  I  said;  for  I 
remembered  you  must  never  let  the  insane  know 
you  are  afraid. 

Betty's  laughter  sounded  far  away. 

'  Take  your  time,"  he  said.  "  They're  enjoy- 
ing themselves.  They  haven't  even  rung  for  the 
cognac  and  liqueurs  yet."  They  would  make 
Bettina  and  me  drink  a  liqueur,  he  said.  Or 
if  they  failed  in  that,  they'd  say,  "  *  a  thimble-full 
of  coffee,  then.' '  And  our  coffee  would  be 
"  doctored." 

"  But  we've  had  coffee,"  I  said,  in  a  new  access 
of  terror.  Was  it  drugged  coffee  that  made  me 
feel  so  lamed? 

"  That  was  all  right,"  he  said.  "  That  was  to 
steady  us." 

He  did  not  look  as  if  he  needed  steadying. 
What  if  he  were  not  mad? 

"  Be  careful,"  he  said  again.  "  Remember  I 
am  running  a  ghastly  risk  in  telling  you.  But  you 
are  facing  a  ghastly  certainty  if  I  don't. 

I  sat  in  that  stillness  of  stark  terror — staring  at 
him. 

And  as  I  stared  I  found  myself  clinging  to  the 
thought  that  had  been  horror's  height  a  little 


THE   GREY   HAWK  289 

while  before.  "  Pray  God  he's  mad,"  I  kept  say- 
ing inwardly. 

If  I  could  keep  my  head,  he  said,  I  had  no 
cause  to  be  so  frightened.  It  would  be  some 
little  time  before  he  could  give  me  up  without 
rousing  suspicion. 

"  Before  you  give  me  up !  "  I  imagined  the 
Grey  Hawk  swooping  to  snatch  me. 

"  Before  I  help  you  to  get  out  of  this,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  And  when  I  do,  you  will  perhaps  re- 
member it  is  at  a  sacrifice.  Greater  than  I  sup- 
posed I  could  feel." 

I  moved  at  that — but  like  a  sleep-walker  on 
the  edge  of  waking. 

I  asked  him  in  a  whisper  what  we  were  to  do. 
I  meant  Betty  and  me.  But  he  said:  "When 
she  begins  to  play,  or  to  sing,  you  are  to  get  up 
quite  quietly — can  you?  " 

I  made  a  sign  for  yes. 

"  No  haste  .  .  .  you  must  do  it  languidly — go 
out  of  the  room." 

"  But  my "  (I  suppressed  "  my  aunt  "  with 

an  inward  twist  of  questioning  anguish)  " shall 

I  not  be  asked  where  I  am  going  and  why?  " 

He  said  no.     Because  he  would  make  the  others 


29o  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

a  sign.  He  thought  my  sister  was  too  excited  to 
take  any  notice  of  my  going.  "  But  if  she  does, 
I'll  tell  her  you  wanted  her  to  go  on  singing.  I 
shall  seem  to  be  coming  after  you.  But  I'll  stop 
to  explain  that  we've  had  an  argument  about  one 
of  the  pictures  in  the  hall."  He  told  me  what  I 
was  to  do. 

"If,  after  all,  they  were  to  prevent  me — what, 
what  then?" 

'  They  won't — they  will  leave  you  to  me."     He 
said  it  with  a  look  that  stopped  the  heart. 

I  implored  him  to  let  me  go  out  alone. 

He  fixed  his  unhappy  eyes   on  mine.     "  You 
would  never  be  allowed  out  of  this  room  alone." 

"  I  could  say  I  must  post  a  letter." 

;<  They  would  ring  for  a  servant." 

I  measured  the  long  room.     "  If  once  I  got  as 
far  as  the  door  I  could  run." 

" as  far  as  the  front  door  perhaps.     You 

would  find  it  locked.  No  servant  would  open  it 
for  you." 

"Will  they  for  you?" 

"  I  can  do  it  for  you,"  he  said,  under  his  breath, 
and  he  stood  up. 

I  thought  he  meant  I  was  to  make  trial  then 


THE   GREY   HAWK  291 

of  that  terrible  passage  to  the  door.  But  was  it 
not  better  to  be  where  Betty  was,  whatever  came 
— Betty  and  I  together — than  Betty  alone  with 
those  devouring-eyed  men,  and  I  with  a  maniac 
out  in  the  hall! 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  sister !  "  I  said. 

He  stood  in  front  of  me,  masking  me  from  the 
others.  "Haven't  I  made  you  understand?  If 
you  don't  leave  the  room  with  me,  she  will  leave 
it  with  Whitby-Dawson." 

"No!  No!" 

He  hushed  me.  "  She  won't  know  why — but 
she'll  do  it.  And  she  won't  come  back  again. 
She  would  probably  be  on  her  way  to  Paris  this 
time  to-morrow."  He  pulled  a  great  cushion  up 
to  hide  my  face.  And  then  he  turned  and  made 
a  feint  of  getting  an  illustrated  paper  off  the  table. 
He  kept  his  eye  on  the  others.  There  was  some 
little  commotion,  during  which  Betty  had  risen. 
She  left  the  sofa  and  sat  on  the  piano-stool.  She 
was  laughing  excitedly. 

The  man  came  back  to  me  with  the  illustrated 
paper.  He  sat  down  closer  to  me,  and  held  the 
paper  open  for  a  shield.  But  he  held  it  strangely, 
with  his  arm  across  the  picture.  The  reading  part 


292  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

was  in  French.  I  had  to  crane  to  see  over  the 
top — Betty  twisting  round  on  the  piano-stool,  and 
touching  the  keys  in  a  provoking  way;  the  two 
men  teasing  her  to  sing. 

I  have  lived  over  every  instant  of  that  hour, 
until  the  smallest  detail  is  a  stain  indelible  upon 
my  mind.  I  have  no  trouble  in  remembering. 
My  trouble  is  to  be  able  to  forget. 

I  hear  again  that  muted  voice  behind  the  paper 
saying:  "But  for  the  collie-dog  story,  I  wouldn't 
have  dared  to  risk  this.  Everything  depends  on 
your  nerve."  And  then  he  looked  at  me  curiously, 
and  wanted  to  know  if  I  had  not  heard  there 

were    such   places "  I   won't   say   like   this. 

This  is  a  masterpiece  of  devilry.  And  master- 
pieces are  never  plentiful." 

He  waited  for  me  to  say  something.  If  I  had 
known  what,  I  could  not  have  said  it.  I  tried 
hard  to  speak.  But  I  could  only  look  dumbly  in 
his  face.  And  I  saw  there  was  no  madness  in 
the  unhappy  eyes. 

1  You  must  have  heard  or  read  of  places  .  .  . 
where  men  and  women  meet,"  he  insisted. 

Then,  with  an  immense  effort,  I  managed  to 
say  that  I  didn't  seem  able  to  think.  I  had  been 


THE    GREY   HAWK  293 

imagining  other  people  insane.  But  perhaps  it 
was  I  ... 

I  stared  over  the  top  of  the  French  paper,  that 
he  was  both  holding  up  and  hiding  from  me.  I 
thought  to  myself:  "  My  mind  is  going."  I  must 
have  said  as  much,  for  he  answered  quickly: 
"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  You've  had  a  shock — that's 
all." 

I  did  not  realise  it  at  the  time,  but,  looking 
back,  I  seem  to  see  the  man's  growing  horror  of 
my  horror,  and  his  fear  I  should  betray  him." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  told  you,"  he  said. 

What  was  it  he  had  told  me?  I  asked  him  to 
help  me  to  understand. 

"  You  make  it  hard.  That  isn't  fair,"  he  said. 
"  You  give  me  a  sense  of  violation.  You  implicate 
me,  in  spite  of  the  quixotic  resolve  I  made  when 
you  begged  me  not  to  go.  You  make  me,  after 
all,  an  instrument  of  initiation." 

Yes,  he  complained.  Yet,  looking  back  from 
the  bleak  height  of  later  knowledge,  I  think  he 
betrayed  some  relish  of  the  moment.  Heaven 
forgive  me  if  I  do  him  wrong!  But  he  was  not, 
I  think,  losing  all  that  he  had  come  for,  or  he 
would  have  shortened  my  agony.  He  was  con- 


294  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

scious,  I  think,  of  the  excitement  of  finding  himself, 
intellectually,  on  virgin  ground.  True,  he  was 
sacrificing  what  few  of  his  sort  would  sacrifice. 
And  he  was  running  the  gravest  personal  risk; 
for  at  some  point  I  asked  about  that.  "  If  she 
knew  what  you  had  told  me,  what  would  she  do?  " 

"  Call  in  her  bullies  to  beat  me  to  a  jelly." 

He  was  more  and  more  unwilling  to  seem  a 
mere  adjunct  of  the  baseness  he  unveiled.  I  was 
not  to  judge  too  harshly.  "  This  situation  " — he 
nodded  towards  Bettina,  the  old  man,  and  the 
young  one — "  all  this,  far  more  crudely  managed, 
is  a  commonplace  in  the  world — in  every  capital 
of  every  nation  on  the  earth.  And  it  has  always 
been  so." 

He  saw  I  did  not  believe  him.  He  seemed  to 
imagine  that,  while  I  was  being  torn  on  the  rack 
where  he  had  stretched  me,  I  could  think  of  other 
things.  I  cried  to  him  under  my  breath  not  to 
torture  me  any  more — "  help  me  quickly  to  get 
help!" 

He  said  I  must  trust  him.  Everything  de- 
pended on  choosing  the  right  moment.  "  If  you 
went  out  now,  with  that  face,  you'd  pull  the  house 
about  our  ears." 


THE    GREY   HAWK  295 

He  was  doing  all  he  could  to  calm  and  steady 
me,  he  said.  And  certainly  he  tried  to  make  me 
feel  that  what  to  me  was  like  a  maniac's  night- 
mare, an  abysmal  horror  beggaring  language  and 
crucifying  thought — it  was  all  a  commonplace  to 
men  and  women  of  the  world.  "  Human  na- 
ture !  "  "  Human  nature !  " — like  the  tolling  of  a 
muffled  bell.  Bishops  and  old  ladies  imagined  you 
could  alter  these  things.  Take  India — "  I've  been 
there.  I  knew  an  official  who'd  had  charge  of  the 
chaklas.  You  don't  know  what  chaklas  are? 
Your  father  knew.  If  you'd  gone  riding  round 
any  one  of  the  cantonments  you'd  have  seen. 
Little  groups  of  tents.  A  hospital  not  far  off. 
Women  in  the  tents.  Out  there  it's  no  secret. 
They're  called  "  Government  women."  The 
women  are  needed  by  the  army.  So  there  they 


are." 


Women  are  "  needed."  Through  the  chaos 
came  back  clear  the  memory  of  my  talk  with 
Betty  in  the  train:  "  Men  don't  need  us  as  much 
as  we  need  them." 

Even  Governments,  he  said,  had  to  recognise 
human  nature,  and  shape  their  policies  accord- 
ingly. I  was  too  young  to  remember  all  that  talk 


296  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

in  the  press  some  years  ago,  about  the  mysterious 
movements  of  British  battleships  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean. Instead  of  hanging  about  Malta,  the 
ships  had  gone  cruising  round  the  Irish  coast. 
Why?  The  officials  said,  for  good  and  sufficient 
reasons.  The  chorus  of  criticism  died  down. 
The  "  reasons  "  were  known  to  those  who  had  to 
know.  Not  enough  women  at  Malta.  The  Brit- 
ish fleet  spent  some  time  about  the  Irish  coasts. 
"  Human  nature " 

"  I  can  do  it  now !  "  I  cried  under  my  breath, 
and  I  stood  up. 

He  shot  out  a  hand  and  pulled  me  back. 
"  Christ !  not  while  the  grey  hawk  is  hovering 
outside !  And  your  lips  are  livid."  A  good  thing, 
he  said,  that  I  had  still  a  few  minutes.  "  You 
have  your  sister  to  thank.  She  is  a  success.  She 
piles  up  anticipation.  The  value  of  that,  to  the 
jaded,  is  the  stock-in-trade  of  people  like  our 
hostess.  At  a  time  when  her  profession  is  a  hun- 
dred per  cent,  more  dangerous  than  it's  ever  been 
since  the  world  began,  she  perfects  it — makes  it 
pay  in  proportion  to  its  danger."  Couldn't  I  trust 
him  to  know?  He  gave  me  his  word:  "  No  inde- 
cent haste  here.  They  are  adepts.  They  have 


THE   GREY   HAWK  297 

learned  that  the  climax  is  less  to  the  sated  than  the 
leading  up.  The  leading  up  is  all."  After  a 
second:  "  How  did  she  get  hold  of  you?  " 

I  knew  no  more  than  the  dead. 

"  Through  someone  very  well  informed.  .  .  ." 
He  probed  and  questioned.  I  could  only  shake 
my  head.  But  my  tortured  mind  flung  itself  spas- 
modically from  one  figure  to  another  in  our  little 
world,  and  felt  each  one's  recoil  from  my  mere 
unspoken  thought.  Until — the  little  dress- 
maker! Her  questions  .  .  .  her  pains  to  estab- 
lish the  fact  of  our  isolation,  of  our  poverty  .  .  . 
her  special  interest  in  our  aunt.  '  You  haf  a 
photografie — hein?  "  And  then  the  picture's  van- 
ishing. Had  it  come  to  this  house  to  serve  as 
model?  The  Tartar  liked  "the  new  coif- 
fure  " 

Two  servants  came  in.  One  carried  a  great 
silver  tray. 

"  Oh,  leave  that  a  bit !  "  The  Tartar,  over 
the  back  of  the  sofa,  waved  the  footman 
off. 

They  came  towards  us,  and  were  told:  "  Put  it 
there  on  the  table."  The  man  beside  me  made  a 
show  of  welcoming  it.  He  dropped  the  illustrated 


298  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

paper  on  my  lap.  "  Bend  down — bend  down 
low,"  he  whispered. 

I  bent  over  the  swimming  page. 

"  What  will  you  have?  "  he  called  out  to  me,  as 
the  footmen  were  leaving  the  room. 

I  tried  to  answer.     No  sound. 

"  Oh,  you  prefer  creme  de  menthe,  do  you?  "  he 
said  quite  loud.  "  Yes,  there's  creme  de  menthe." 
He  filled  a  glass  and  brought  it  to  me.  "  Cognac," 
he  whispered.  "  It  will  steady  you." 

I  put  my  shaking  lips  to  the  glass.  I  did  not 
drink. 

"  Ah,  you  are  afraid,"  he  said.  And  he  looked 
at  me  with  his  unhappy  eyes. 

My  hand  was  shaking.  Some  of  the  stuff  spilt 
out  on  my  new  dress. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  he  said,  and  he  drank  it  off — 
"  just  to  show  "  me. 

I  was  conscious  that  Betty  was  singing — And 
that  the  door  had  opened.  The  Grey  Hawk 
stood  there  with,  as  I  thought  at  first,  a  thick-set 
boy  dressed  in  a  man's  evening  clothes.  As  she 
dismissed  him  I  saw  he  was  a  hunchback.  She 
shut  the  door  behind  the  hunchback  and  the 
Colonel  left  the  piano  and  came  towards  her. 


THE    GREY   HAWK  299 

He    was    laughing.     They    stood     and    talked. 

"  Bend  down.  Bend  low "  the  voice  said 

in  my  ear. 

The  Colonel's  croaking  laugh  came  nearer. 

The  man  at  my  side  called  out:  "Look  here, 
Colonel.  No  poaching  on  my  preserves.  We  are 
deep  in  a  discussion  about  Art.  You're  not  to 
interrupt." 

"  Oh,  Art  is  it?  "  The  old  man  had  come  be- 
hind our  sofa,  and  was  leaning  down  between  us. 
I  smelt  a  foul  breath.  With  a  sense  of  choking  I 
lifted  my  head.  The  Colonel's  watery  eyes  went 
from  me  to  the  strange  ugly  picture  in  the  illus- 
trated paper.  I  did  not  understand  it.  I  do  not 
think  I  would  have  been  conscious  of  having 
looked  at  it,  but  for  the  expression  on  the  Col- 
onel's face. 

Bettina  finished  her  song.  They  all  clapped. 
In  the  buzz,  Bettina  raised  her  voice.  No,  no. 
She  couldn't  dance,  and  sing,  as  well  as  accompany 
herself,  she  said. 

;'  What  time  is  it  in?  "  the  grey  woman  asked. 
She  took  Bettina's  place  at  the  piano. 

Still  Bettina  hesitated,  while  The  Tartar 
urged. 


300  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  Oh,  7  don't  mind,"  Bettina  said,  "  if  you  like 
such  babyish  songs." 

"  Of  course  we  do," — the  Colonel  went  back  to 
them. 

Bettina  said  pertly:  "I  should  think  you'd  be 
ashamed."  She  stood  beside  the  grey  woman  and 
hummed  the  old  tune.  She  helped  by  striking  a 
few  notes. 

"  Now!  "  the  grey  woman  said  to  Betty. 

The  word  was  echoed  in  my  ear. 

"Now?"  I  repeated. 

"  But  first  " — he  caught  my  hand.  "  Bite  your 
lip  a  little.  .  .  .  Ah !  not  blood."  He  smuggled 
his  handkerchief  to  me  behind  the  cushion. 
"You'll  be  all  right,"  he  whispered.  "But  I 
wish  I  could  go  with  you !  You  see  that  I  must 
stay  behind " 

"  Yes,  oh  yes,"  I  looked  at  Betty. 

"  I  must  stay,"  he  said,  "  to  give  you  time. 
Then  when  I've  seen  you  out  of  this  ...  a  door 
open,  a  door  shut — and  I  shall  never  see  you 
again.  .  .  ." 

"  Now !  Now!  "  I  hardly  noticed  that  he  took 
his  blood-stained  handkerchief  out  of  my  hand. 
For  Bettina  had  come  forward  and  stood  poised, 


THE   GREY   HAWK  301 

holding  her  green  skirt  with  both  hands,  like  a 
child  about  to  curtsey.  I  stood  up.  All  the  room 
was  dancing  with  my  little  sister.  I  got  to  the 
door. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ...  f" 

Betty  sang.  But  she  was  too  amused  and  excited 
to  notice  me. 

My  companion  had  crossed  the  room,  and  was 
bending  over  the  Grey  Hawk.  She  looked  round 
at  him  surprised,  mocking.  .  .  . 

Some  power  came  to  help  me  across  the  thresh- 
old. A  footman  started  up  out  of  the  floor  and 
stood  before  me.  "  Where  are  you  going?  "  He 
echoed  Betty. 

"  I  am  waiting  for — one  of  the  gentlemen,"  I 
said,  and  I  steadied  myself  against  a  chair.  If 
Betty's  song  stopped,  I  should  know  we  had  failed. 

I  held  my  breath,  as  I  leaned  over  and  took 
my  last  look  into  the  room.  Our  friend  was  leav- 
ing the  grey  woman.  She  played  on.  Bettina 
was  dancing,  a  hand  on  her  hip,  the  other  twirling 
moustachios — playing  the  gallant.  Such  a  baby 
she  looked! 

And  I  had  done  her  hair  like  that 


302  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

"  What  is  your  fortune,  my  pretty  maid? " 

The  man  had  come  out  and  softly  shut  the  door. 
He  gave  the  footman  a  strange  look  and  passed 
him  something.  "  It's  all  right,"  he  said. 

The  footman  looked  in  his  hand  and  stared. 
"  Mais,  merci — merci,  monsieur."  He  vanished. 

I  went  towards  the  stairs. 

"  That's  not  the  way,"  the  voice  said  harshly. 

"  Shan't  I  get  a  cloak " 

"  For  God's  sake,  no!  It's  a  question  of  mo- 
ments now."  He  was  undoing  the  door.  "  Run 
for  your  life.  First  to  the  left — second  to  the 
right — a  cab-rank." 

I  fled  out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

WHERE? 

I   STOOD  ringing.     I   thundered  at  the  knocker. 
I  beat  the  door  with  my  fist. 

An  old  man  opened  at  last. 

"Mrs.  Harborough!  Where  is  she?"  The 
old  man  tried  to  keep  me  out.  But  he  was  gentle 
and  frail.  I  forced  my  way  past.  I  called  and 
ran  along  a  passage,  trying  doors  that  opened 
into  the  darkness. 

At  last!  A  room  where  a  woman  sat  alone — 
reading  by  a  shaded  light. 

"Who  are  you?"  I  cried  out.  She  laid  her 
book  in  her  lap.  "Are  you  Mrs.  Harborough? 
Then  come — come  quickly  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you  on 
the  way " 

The  old  woman  lifted  the  folds  of  her  double 
chin  and  looked  at  me  through  spectacles. 

'  You  must  come  and  help  me  to  get  Bet- 
tina.  ..."  I  broke  into  distracted  sobbing  on 

the    name.      "  Bettina !    Bettina !"      I 

seized  the  lady's  hand  and  tried  to  draw  her  out 
of  her  chair. 

303 


3o4  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

But  I  was  full  of  trembling.  She  sat  there 
massive,  calm,  with  a  power  of  inert  resistance, 
that  made  me  feel  I  could  as  easily  drag  her  house 
out  of  the  Square  by  its  knocker,  as  move  the 
woman  planted  there  in  her  chair. 
*••>  Neither  haste  nor  perturbation  in  the  voice  that 
asked  me:  "What  has  happened?" 

"  Not  yet!  "  I  cried  out.  "  Nothing  has  hap- 
pened yet !  But  we  must  be  quick.  Oh,  God,  let 
us  be  quick " 

The  butler  had  followed  me  in  and  was  asking 
something.  "  Yes,"  said  the  quiet  voice,  "  pay 
the  cabman." 

"  No!  "  I  shrieked.  "  Keep  him!  I  must  go 
back,  instantly.  .  .  ."  And  through  my  own 
strange-sounding  voice,  hers  reached  me. 

"  You  must  see  that  you  are  quite  unintelligible. 
Sit  down  and  collect  yourself." 

"Sit  down!  Isn't  it  enough  that  one  woman 
sits  still,  while — while " 

She  was  putting  questions. 

I  heard  a  reproach  that  seemed  to  fill  the  house : 
'  You  never  came  to  meet  us !  " 

And  while  the  charge  was  ringing  I  felt,  with 
anguish,  the  injustice  of  it  How  could  one  have 
expected  this  woman  to  come! 


WHERE?  305 

But  she  should  be  moved  and  stirred  at  last! 

"  I  sent  my  maid,"  she  was  defending  herself, 
" — only  a  minute  or  two  late." 

"  The  other  woman  was  not  late !  " 
«  "Who?" 

I  begged  the  butler  to  get  a  cloak  for  Mrs.  Har- 
borough.  She  was  saying  Bettina  and  I  should 
have  waited.  And  again  that  I  must  calm  my- 
self and  tell  her 

"  Someone  pretended  to  be  you!  "  I  hurled  it 
at  her.  "  She  took  us  to  a  house — a  place  where 
they  do  worse  than  murder.  Betty  is  there 

now "     I  told  her  all  I  could  pack  into  a  few 

sentences. 

"  It  isn't  possible,"  my  aunt  said.  '  This  is 
England." 

"  Come  and  see!  Betty "     But  they  only 

thought  me  mad;  they  tortured  me  with  questions. 

I  caught  her  by  the  arm.  "  God  won't  forgive 
you  if  you  wait  an  instant  more." 

Oh,  but  she  was  old  and  unbelieving!  So  old, 
I  felt  she  had  looked  on  unmoved  at  evil  since 
the  world  began. 

But  she  was  sending  for  wraps,  sending  mes- 
sages. Still  she  sat  there,  in  the  heavy,  square- 
backed  chair,  her  hands  upon  her  knees,  her  two 


3o6  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

feet  side  by  side  as  motionless  as  the  footstool, 
her  heavy  shoulders  high  and  square,  her  lace 
cap  with  square  ends  falling  either  side  her  face, 
like  the  head-dress  of  an  Egyptian,  her  air  of 
monumental  calm  more  like  a  Theban  statue 
than  a  living  woman. 

I  turned  away. 

The  figure  in  the  chair  rose  up  at  last. 

Oh,  but  slowly — slow,  and  stiff,  and  ponder- 
ous. 

I  felt  in  her  all  the  heaviness  of  the  acquiescent 
since  Time  began. 

"  That  is  right,"  she  said  to  the  old  man  who 
had  brought  the  maid. 

And  the  maid  was  old,  too. 

Three  helpless  ghosts. 

Like  death  the  sense  came  over  me  that  I  was 
as  badly  off  with  these  three,  as  I  had  been  alone. 
Again  I  turned  from  them,  frantic. 

"  I  will  go  out,"  I  cried,  "  and  find  help."  I 
ran  towards  the  door. 

It  was  then  the  old  man  made  the  first  sane 
suggestion.  We  could  telephone  to  the  police. 

That  would  save  time!  The  police  would 
meet  us  outside  Betty's  prison. 


WHERE?  307 

I  followed  the  butler  into  the  hall.  We  all 
stood  there,  by  the  telephone.  Ages  seemed  to 
go  by  while  he  was  getting  the  number.  And 
when  he  had  got  the  number,  he  could  not  hear 
the  questions  that  were. put.  I  tore  the  receiver 
out  of  his  hand — I  pushed  him  aside.  But  I  had 
never  used  the  telephone  before,  and  I  spoke  too 
loudly.  When  they  told  me  so,  I  sobbed.  The 
voice  at  the  other  end  was  faint  and  cool.  Oh, 
the  easy  way  the  world  was  taking  Betty's 
fate! 

And  then  the  faint  cool  voice  at  the  other  end 
said  something  which  showed  me  I  was  not  be- 
lieved. 

He,  too,  was  thinking  I  was  out  of  my  mind. 

The  receiver  dropped  from  my  hand. 

"  They  cannot  understand,"  I  said.  I  told 
Mrs.  Harborough  that  she  must  go  to  Bettina,  and 
I  would  bring  the  police. 

Some  objection  was  made.  I  did  not  stop  to 
hear  it:  "I  cannot  wait  for  any  words!  And 
I  will  not  wait  another  second  for  any  human 
soul!" 

Then,  running  beside  me  as  I  made  for  the 
front  door,  the  old  butler  spoke  again:  " a 


3o8  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

policeman   in   our   square."     He   would   call   the 
policeman  in. 

The  old  man  was  right.  A  policeman  stood  at 
the  corner,  watching  that  no  harm  should  come 
to  the  ladies  of  Lowndes  Square. 

I  had  run  out,  with  the  butler  protesting  at 
my  heels:  "Not  in  the  street,  miss!"  he  said, 
with  the  first  hint  of  emotion  I  had  found  in 
him. 

I  did  not  wait;  but  he  must  have  brought  the 
policeman  in  during  my  outpouring,  for  the  look 
of  the  hall  during  those  swift  seconds  is  stamped 
on  my  brain.  The  elderly  maid  kneeling  at  her 
mistress's  feet,  changing  her  shoes;  the  police- 
man facing  my  aunt,  helmet  in  hand,  his  reverent 
eye  falling  before  the  dignity  of  Mrs.  Harbor- 
ough,  while  I,  at  his  elbow,  poured  out  broken 
sentences,  interlarded  with :  "  I'll  tell  you  the  rest 
as  we  go " 

My  strained  voice  was  grown  weak.  I  won- 
dered, suddenly,  if  it  had  ever  really  reached 
their  ears. 

I  was  like  a  person  down  under  the  sea,  trying 
to  make  my  voice  heard  through  a  mile  of  murky 
water. 


WHERE?  309 

I  was  like  a  woman  buried  alive,  who,  in  the 
black  middle  of  the  night,  beats  at  her  coffin-lid 
in  some  deserted  graveyard. 

"  It  is  no  use !  "  I  cried.  "  I  shall  go  back 
alone." 

At  last  we  were  all  going  out  of  the  door. 
The  policeman  put  on  his  helmet. 

"  And  where  is  this  house?  "  he  asked. 

«  It  is— it  is " 

A  pit  of  blackness  opened.  I  felt  myself  fall- 
ing headlong.  I  heard  a  cry  that  made  my  flesh 
writhe — as  though  the  cry  had  been  Bettina's, 
and  not  mine. 

A  voice  said:  "  It  is  not  possible  you  have  for- 
gotten the  address !  " 

I  had  never  known  it! 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  BLUNT  LEAD-PENCIL 

IT  must  have  been  half  an  hour  before  reason 
came  back.  A  strange  man  was  there,  lean  and 
grey.  A  friend,  I  heard — a  Healer. 

All  those  old,  old  faces! 

What  had  they  done? 

What  could  they  do? — except  telephone  again 
to  the  police  the  vague  and  non-committal  fact  of 
a  girl  decoyed  and  lost  to  sight  in  the  labyrinth 
of  London. 

They  dared  to  think  they  could  get  me  to  bed. 
They  found  me,  not  a  girl — more  a  wild  animal ! 

Out,  out  I  must  go. 

The  outward  struggle  was  matched  by  the  one 
in  my  mind.  Where  should  I  go?  To  whom? 
There  must  be  somebody  who  would  care. 
Somebody  who  had  Power  to  give  effect  to  car- 
ing. Wildly  my  ignorance  cast  about.  Who 
had  Power? 

The  King — yes;  and  surely  the  Queen  would 
"care."  But  who  was  I  to  reach  the  Queen? 
Her  sentinels  and  servants  would  thrust  me  out. 

310 


THE    BLUNT   LEAD-PENCIL     311 

All  my  crying  would  never  reach  the  Queen. 
Then,  the  only  thing  that  was  left  was  for  me  to 
go  out  and  cry  the  horror  in  the  street. 

They  held  the  door  while  they  told  me  there 
had  been  telephoning  back  and  forth.  And 
someone  had  already  gone  to  Alton  Street. 

"  Is  that  where  Betty  is?  " 

No.  Alton  Street  was  the  nearest  police-sta- 
tion. The  person  who  had  been  sent  there  had 
not  yet  come  back. 

Then  I,  too,  must  go  to  Alton  Street  to  learn 
what  they  were  doing. 

The  power  of  the  police  still  loomed  immense. 
At  Alton  Street  I  would  hear  they  had  already 
found  Betty.  She  might  even  be  there  at  this 
moment  . 


My  aunt,  the  Healer  and  I  driving  through  de- 
serted streets.  How  long  was  it  since  I  had  been 
away  from  Bettina? 

"  Oh,  not  long,"  they  said.  And  the  police  be- 
yond a  doubt  had  turned  the  time  to  good  ac- 
count. 

I  had  a  vision  of  the  Betty  I  should  find  at 


3i2  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

Alton   Street.     Fainting,   ministered  to   by  men, 
reverent  of  her  youth  and  terror.  .  .  . 

***** 

A  grimy  room  with  a  counter  running  down  its 
length.  No  sign  of  Betty;  only  men  in  uniform 
grouped  in  twos  and  threes  behind  the  counter. 

They  listened.  Yes,  my  aunt's  messenger 
"  had  been  in."  They  shook  their  heads. 

The  Healer  did  most  of  the  talking. 

A  man  with  a  sallow  face  put  a  question  now 
and  then.  He  was  the  inspector. 

Although  there  were  only  policemen  there  be- 
sides ourselves,  the  inspector  talked  quite  low, 
as  though  he  was  afraid  someone  might  come  to 
know  a  girl  was  lost. 

"I  can't  hear  what  you  are  saying!"  I  said. 
"  She  is  my  sister.  You  must  tell  me  what  you 
are  doing  to  find  her." 

They  had  so  little  to  go  upon.  "  The  only 
clue,  and  that  a  very  slight  one,"  was  the  cab- 
man. Could  I  remember  what  he  was  like? 

The  strangeness  of  the  question!  Taxi-drivers 
were  as  much  alike  to  country  eyes  as  the  cabs 

they  drove But  why  ask  me?  "  Bring  the 

man  in,  and  let  the  inspector  see  him." 


THE    BLUNT   LEAD-PENCIL    313 

Then  they  told  me.  The  man  who  was  wait- 
ing there  outside  was  not  the  one  who  had  taken 
me  to  Lowndes  Square. 

But  where  was  our  "  slight  and  only  clue  "  ? 

They  said  that  while  they  all  were  busied 
over  me,  unconscious,  the  butler  had  paid  the  cab- 
man and  let  him  go.  He  had  never  thought  to 
take  the  number.  The  slight,  the  only  clue,  was 
lost 

But  no.  The  inspector  said  they  would  circu- 
late an  inquiry  for  a  cabman  who  had  brought  a 
young  lady  of  my  description  to  Lowndes  Square 
that  night. 

I  tried  to  learn  how  long  this  would  take — 
what  we  could  do  meanwhile.  What  had  been 
already  done. 

They  seemed  to  be  saying  things  which  had  no 
meaning.  Except  one  thing.  The  great  difficulty 
was  that  I  could  not  describe  the  outside  of  the 
house,  nor  even  the  general  locality.  Which  way 
had  we  driven  from  Victoria? 

I  had  no  idea. 

But  surely  I  had  looked  about.  What  had 
I  noticed  as  we  drove  away  from  the  sta- 
tion? 


3i4  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  do  not  know  whether  at  another  time  I  might 
have  answered  better,  but  I  could  remember  only 
a  confused  crowd  of  passengers,  porters,  taxi-cabs, 
and  motors.  Yes,  and  the  woman  who  had 
looked  after  us  while  she  asked  her  way  of  a 
policeman. 

Why  had  she  looked  after  us? 

I  could  no  more  tell  them  that  than  I  could  tell 
why  both  she  and  the  policeman  had  followed  us 
with  such  unfriendly  eyes. 

"  Ah!  " — the  inspector  exchanged  glances  with 
the  Healer — "  a  possible  clue  there." 

I  could  not  imagine  what  he  meant.  I  could 
not  believe  that  he  meant  anything  when  I  saw 
the  expressionless  yellow  face  turned  to  Mrs. 
Harborough  to  say  that  "  in  any  case  "  the  Vic- 
toria policeman  would  not  be  on  duty  now.  The 
inspector  talked  about  what  they  would  do  to- 
morrow. 

'  To-night — to-night;  what  can  we  do  to- 
night?" 

He  brought  a  piece  of  yellow  paper.  He  put 
the  questions  over  again,  and  this  time  he  wrote 
the  answers  down  with  a  stump  of  worn  lead- 
pencil.  The  glazed  paper  was  like  the  man,  it 


THE    BLUNT   LEAD-PENCIL    315 

took  impressions  grudgingly;  it  held  them  very 
faint. 

While  the  blunt  lead-pencil  laboured  across  the 
sheet,  something  that  other  man  had  said  to  me 
in  the  house  of  horror  flashed  back  across  my 
mind.  I  had  not  believed  him  at  the  time,  still 
less  now,  in  the  presence  of  the  guardians  of  the 
City — all  these  grave  and  decent  people. 

Shamefaced  I  asked  Mrs.  Harborough  if  the 
inspector  knew  of  "  any  house  where  a  woman 
takes  young  girls." 

She  and  all  the  rest  were  one  as  silent  as  the 
other,  till  I  steadied  my  voice  to  say  again,  this 
time  to  the  man  himself:  "You  have  no  knowl- 
edge, then,  of  '  such  a  place  '?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that,"  he  answered. 

I  looked  at  him  bewildered.  "  You  mean  you 
do  know  of  a  house — a  house  where " 

He  hesitated  too.  "  We  know  some,"  he  said. 
'  You  don't  mean  there  are  many?  " 

Again  the  hesitation.  "  Not  many  of  the  sort 
you  describe."  He  took  up  the  stump  of  pencil 
hurriedly  and  held  it  poised.  "  Try  to  recollect 
some  landmark,"  he  said — "  some  building,  some 
statue  that  you  passed." 


3i6  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  did  my  best  to  obey — to  wrench  my  mind 
away  from  the  inside  of  that  place  where  Betty 
was  ...  to  think  of  what  we  had  seen  on  the 
way. 

"  Did  you  drive  through  the  Park?  "  said  my 
aunt. 

"  No,"  the  inspector  answered  for  me,  "  she 
wouldn't  take  them  through  the  Park;  she  would 
go  as  fast  as  possible — by  side  streets " 

But  I  told  them  we  had  passed  the  Park.  We 
had  seen  flower-beds  through  a  tall  iron  railing. 
She  said  it  was  Hyde  Park,  and  the  flowers  were 
on  our  left. 

"  Hamilton  Place.  Park  Lane."  The  inspec- 
tor punctuated  my  phrases.  "  Driving  north. 
You  crossed  Oxford  Street?  " 

I  could  not  say.  Other  questions,  too,  I  had 
no  answer  for.  I  held  my  head  between  my 
hands  trying  to  force  the  later  impressions  out — 
trying  to  recover  something  of  that  drive  I  seemed 
to  have  taken  a  hundred  years  ago  in  some  other 
state  of  being.  And  as  I  stood  so,  sobbing  in- 
wardly and  praying  God  to  let  me  remember,  I 
heard  the  inspector  say  the  most  horrible  thing 
of  all.  And  it  was  the  horrible  thing  that  gave  me 


THE    BLUNT   LEAD-PENCIL    317 

a  moment  of  hope.  He  told  my  aunt  that  the 
police  kept  a  list  of  "  these  houses." 

A  list. 

He  said  the  police  were  "  expected  to  have  an 
eye  on  such  places."  And  no  one  contradicted 
him. 

"  Even  if  there  are  many,"  I  burst  out — "  you 
have  all  these  policemen  here.  You  have  hun- 
dreds more.  Those  houses  in  the  list  must  all 
be  searched " 

They  would  do  what  they  could,  he  said. 

I  did  not  know  why  they  should  at  the  same 
time  speak  of  doing  all  they  could,  and  yet  should 
look  so  hopeless.  But  I  saw  that  nobody  moved. 
My  two  companions  talked  in  undertones.  The 
men  in  uniform  still  stood  in  twos  and  threes. 
One  near  a  high  desk  drummed  with  his  fingers 
on  an  open  book.  The  Healer  folded  his  thin 
long  hands  upon  the  counter.  In  that  horrible 
stillness  I  said  suddenly,  "Look  at  the  clock!" 
The  clock's  hands  too  were  folded,  praying  people 
to  notice  it  was  midnight. 

They  stirred  a  little  at  my  voice.  They  looked 
at  me  and  at  the  clock.  The  inspector  said  they 
were  waiting  for  Mrs.  Harborough's  messenger. 


3i8  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

The  messenger  had  gone  out  with  a  constable  to 
make  inquiry  at  the  nearest  cab  shelter. 

Why  had  they  not  told  us  that  before ! 

My  two  companions  followed  me,  talking  low. 
***** 

We  were  driven  to  a  little  wooden  house,  set 
close  against  the  curb.  Two  or  three  men  in- 
side, and  one  behind  an  urn  was  pouring  coffee. 

Yes,  yes,  a  gentleman  had  "  called."  Each  one 
there  had  been  questioned.  Others,  besides,  who 
had  been  in  and  out.  No  one  had  taken  a  lady 
to  Lowndes  Square  that  night. 

The  door  shut  behind  us.  We  were  out  again, 
in  the  street. 

Two  taxi-cabs  in  the  rank,  and  ours  at  the  curb  ? 
Besides  our  driver  and  ourselves  not  a  soul  afoot, 
outside  the  little  wooden  shelter.  Betty — Betty, 
what  am  I  to  do?  I  looked  up  at  the  houses. 
In  almost  any  one  of  them  must  be  some  good 
man,  who,  if  he  knew,  would  help  me.  But  the 
houses  were  curtained,  and  dark. 

The  silence  of  the  streets  seemed  a  deeper 
silence  than  any  the  country  knows.  The  only 
sound,  my  two  companions  whispering.  "  He  " 
would  no  doubt  be  waiting  for  them  at  Lowndes 


THE    BLUNT   LEAD-PENCIL     319 

Square,  they  said.  Could  they  mean,  then,  to  go 
home  .  .  .? 

Betty — Betty I  looked  up  again  at  the 

houses — houses  of  great  folk,  I  felt  sure.  Offi- 
cials, perhaps;  equerries;  people  about  the  Court 
— people  whose  names  we  had  often  seen  in  the 
paper  as  going  here  and  there  with  the  King  and 
Queen.  People  who  would  not  be  turned  back  at 
any  time  of  night  if  they  went  to  the  Palace  on  an 
errand  of  life  and  death.  Should  I  run  along  the 
street  ringing  at  all  the  bells? 

I  may  have  made  some  movement,  for  Mrs. 
Harborough  took  my  arm  and  drew  me  towards 
the  cab.  No,  the  people  in  the  great  houses 
would  be  sleeping  too  far  away  from  those  blank 
doors.  Deafness  had  fallen  on  the  world,  and 
on  the  houses  of  good  men  a  great  darkness. 

A  light — at  last,  a  light!  shining  out  of  a 
house  on  a  far  corner  which  had  been  masked  by 
the  cab  shelter.  And  people  awake  there,  for  a 
taxi  waited  at  the  door — the  door  of  hope. 
Above  it  an  electric  burner  made  a  square  of 
brightness.  In  that  second  of  tense  listening, 
my  foot  on  the  step  of  the  cab,  a  raised  voice 
reached  me  faintly. 


320  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

I  dragged  my  arm  free  and  went,  blind  and 
stumbling,  towards  the  sound.  I  shall  find  some- 
one to  go  to  the  Queen.  .  .  . ! 

The  Healer  had  followed  quickly:  "What  are 
you  doing!  That's  a  public-house." 

They  took  me  back,  they  put  me  in  the  cab.  I 
hardly  knew  why  I  resisted,  except  that  I  was  look- 
ing wildly  about  for  someone  to  appeal  to,  and 
I  kept  childishly  repeating:  "  The  Queen  .  .  .  the 
Queen." 

While  Mrs.  Harborough  was  being  helped  into 
the  cab  after  me,  I  leaned  out  of  the  window  on 
the  opposite  side,  looking  up  the  street  and  down. 
The  wind  blew  cold  on  my  wet  face. 

"  The  Queen,  the  Queen !  Oh,  why  are  you 
Queen  of  England,  if  you  can't  help  Betty?  " 

The  door  of  the  public-house  opened,  and  a 
man  reeled  out.  A  man  in  chauffeur's  dress.  A 
man — with  crooked  shoulders ! 

I  remembered  now. 

I  opened  the  cab-door  on  my  side,  and  tore 
across  the  street  with  voices  calling  after  me. 

The  unsteady  figure  had  stooped  down  by  the 
waiting  taxi,  and  set  the  machinery  whirring. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  bent  over  him.     "  Are  you  the 


THE    BLUNT   LEAD-PENCIL    321 

man  who  brought  me  to  Lowndes  Square  an  hour 
or  so  ago?  " 

The  man  looked  up.  As  the  cab  light  fell  on 
his  face  I  recognised  him. 

Oh,  God,  the  relief! 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   MAN   .WITH   THE   SWORD 

"TAKE  me  back!  Take  me  to  the  place  you 
brought  me  from,"  I  cried  to  the  stooping  figure. 

The  others  had  come  up.  The  chauffeur  was 
vague  and  mumbling.  He  was  drunk  enough  to 
be  stubborn,  cautious.  But  money  quickened 
him. 

He  had  picked  me  up,  he  said,  "  in  one  of  the 
streets.  .  .  ."  he  couldn't  say  positively  which, 
and  he  mentioned  several.  It  might  be  any  one 
of  them;  but  it  wasn't  far  from  St.  John's  Wood 
Station. 

In  spite  of  the  man's  condition  I  wanted  to  get 
into  his  cab.  I  had  a  horror  of  losing  him. 

"  I  have  taken  his  number,"  the  Healer  said, 
as  though  that  were  enough. 

And  all  the  while But  we  are  coming, 

Betty!  Coming.  .  .  . 

The  other  driver  had  been  summoned.  I 
heard  the  names  of  streets  and  of  police-stations. 
They  settled  which  would  be  the  one. 

"Will  you  drive  very  fast?"  I  asked.  "I 
322 


THE   MAN  WITH  THE   SWORD     323 

will   give  you   all   I   have   if  you'll   drive   fast." 

The  drunken  chauffeur  followed  us  in  his  swerv- 
ing, rocking  cab.  I  leaned  out  of  the  window  all 
the  way,  weeping,  praying.  And  I  never  took 
my  eyes  away  from  the  only  clue. 

Minutes  and  minutes  went  by.  I  seemed  to 
have  spent  my  life  hanging  out  of  a  taxi  window, 
watching  a  drunken  driver  steer  his  uneven 
course.  He  ran  up  on  a  curbstone,  and  the  cab 
tilted.  Then  it  righted,  and  came  on  at  a  terrific 
pace,  almost  to  capsize  again  as  it  turned  the 
abrupt  corner,  which  we  ourselves  had  rounded 
just  before  we  stopped.  I  looked  up,  and  saw 
a  light  burning  in  a  lantern  above  an  open 
door. 

The  room  we  went  into  was  smaller  than  the 
one  at  Alton  Street. 

And  Betty  wasn't  there. 

Only  one  man,  standing  at  a  high  desk.  An 
honest-looking,  fresh-coloured  man;  but  quite 
young.  When  the  others  began  telling  him  why 
we  had  come  I  broke  in :  "  This  is  not  an  ordinary 
thing.  We  must  see  the  inspector." 

The  young  man  said  he  was  the  inspector. 

Among  us  we  told  him. 


324  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

The  drunken  cabman,  almost  sober,  spoke  quite 
differently.  Sensible,  alert.  Now  something 
would  be  done !  I  no  longer  regretted  the  youth 
of  the  inspector.  This  man  was  human. 

"  You  will  bring  *  the  List '  and  come  with  us 
at  once?  " 

I  was  told  he  could  not  come.  An  inspector 
must  stay  at  his  post.  An  inspector's  post  was 
the  station. 

But  I  clung  to  the  hope  he  had  inspired.  What 
had  he  turned  away  for  with  that  brisk  air?  My 
eyes  went  on  before  him,  looking  for  the  telephone 
he  must  be  going  to  use;  or  an  electric  bell  that 
should  sound  some  great  alarum,  summoning  a 
legion  of  police. 

He  had  come  back;  he  stood  before  us  holding 
in  his  hand  a  piece  of  yellow  paper.  Precisely 
such  a  piece  of  paper  as  that  on  which  already, 
there  in  Alton  Street,  the  miserable  story  was  set 
down.  I  shall  not  be  believed,  but  this  man,  too, 
began  to  write  on  the  glazed  surface  with  a  stump 
of  blunt  lead-pencil. 

"  Don't  wait  to  write  it  all  again !  "  I  prayed. 
'  Telephone  for  help.  .  .  ," 

But  he,  too,  made  liHe  of  the  need  for  hasfe. 


THE   MAN  WITH   THE   SWORD     325 

He,  too,  made  much  of  what  I  had  noticed  as  we 
left  Victoria — the  homely  woman  and  the  police- 
man watching  as  we  drove  away. 

"  You  think,"  Mrs.  Harborough  said,  "  that 
the  woman  was  suspicious?  " 

"  No  doubt — and  no  doubt  the  policeman  was 
suspicious  too."  The  inspector  spoke  with  pride: 
"  Oh,  we  get  to  know  those  people !  They  meet 
the  trains.  They're  at  the  docks  when  ships  come 


in." 


It  was  then  I  saw  that  Mrs.  Harborough  could 
be  stirred  too.  "  If  the  policeman  knew,"  she  said 
— "  if  he  so  much  as  suspected,  why  did  he  not 
stop  the  motor?  " 

The  inspector  shook  his  head. 

"Why  didn't  he  arrest  the  woman?" 

"  He  is  not  allowed,"  said  the  inspector. 

I  was  sure  he  couldn't  be  telling  us  the  truth. 
A  creeping  despair  came  over  me.  My  first  im- 
pression had  been  right.  This  man  was  too 
young,  too  ignorant,  to  help  in  such  appalling 
trouble  as  ours.  He  was  speaking  kindly  still. 
I  might  be  sure  they  would  do  all  they  could  to 
discover  the  house 

"When?     When?" 


326  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

And  if  they  did  discover  it,  he  said,  they  would 
watch  it. 

"  '  Watch  it! '  "  I  could  not  think  I  had  heard 
right.  "  You  don't  mean  stand  outside  and  wait! 
i — while  all  the  time  inside " 

They  tried  to  make  me  calmer.  The  inspector 
said,  under  certain  circumstances,  a  warrant  could 
be  obtained  to  search  the  house.  .  .  . 

And  was  the  warrant  ready? 

Everything  possible  would  be  done.  Oh,  the 
times  they  said  that!  Then  the  inspector,  a  little 
wearied,  told  Mrs.  Harborough  "  it  might  be  ad- 
visable to  go  and  see  the  man  who  is  in  charge  of 
all  these  cases." 

Not  only  I,  Mrs.  Harborough  heard  him.  For 
she  repeated,  "  *  All  these  cases ! '  You  don't 
mean  such  a  thing  has  happened  before?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  the  young  man  said.  "  But  usually 
it's  poor  girls.  This  is  the  gentleman  who  has 
charge  of  all  that."  He  turned  and  pointed  to 
the  left.  Beyond  a  board  where  keys  were  hang- 
ing, under  two  crossed  swords,  the  electric  light 
shone  clear  on  the  picture  of  a  man  in  an  officer's 
uniform.  A  man  wearing  a  sword  and  a  cocked 
hat  with  plume — the  sort  of  dress  Lord  Helm- 
stone  wore  when  he  went  to  the  King's  Levee. 


THE   MAN   WITH   THE   SWORD     327 

"  When  is  he  here?  "  Mrs.  Harborough  asked. 

"  Oh,  he  never  comes  here.  He's  at  Scotland 
Yard." 

"Scotland!"  I  cried. 

They  told  me  Scotland  Yard  was  in  London. 

Then  we'll  go  to  Scotland  Yard! 

He  wouldn't  be  at  Scotland  Yard  now.  "  He 
might  be  there  in  the  morning  "...  this  man,  in 
charge  of  all  such  cases! 

The  young  inspector  spoke  his  superior's  name 
with  awe.  Oh,  a  person  very  great  and  powerful, 
and  his  hand  was  on  his  sword.  I  put  my  empty 
hands  over  my  face  and  wept  aloud. 

Betty — Betty — who  will  help  us? 

***** 

I  did  not  need  their  foolish  words  to  realise,  at 
last,  that  I  should  have  as  much  help  (now,  when 
help  was  any  good) — as  much  help  from  the 
sword  in  the  picture  as  from  this  man  with  three 
stripes  on  his  sleeve  and  the  blunt  lead-pencil  in 
his  hand. 

Who  was  there  in  all  the  world  who  really 
cared  ? 

A  vision  of  my  mother  rose  to  stab  at  me. 

No  other  friend?  Eric! — as  far  away  as 
heaven. 


328  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

The  inspector  and  the  man  in  leather  were 
lifting  me  into  a  cab.  The  electric  light  was 
fierce  in  their  faces.  Then  the  light  and  they 
were  gone.  We  were  driving  in  silence  through 
streets  of  shadow  sharply  streaked  with  light.  I 
crouched  in  the  corner,  and  fought  the  flames  that 
shrivelled  up  my  flesh. 

Torment !     Torment ! 

Betty  with  a  hundred  faces.  And  every  one  a 
separate  agony.  Betty  beginning  to  understand. 
Betty  looking  for  her  sister — calling  out  for  me. 
No  sister!  No  friend!  Only  the  fiends  of  hell! 

Torment !     Torment ! 

I  was  crying  fiercely  again,  and  beating  with 
clenched  fists.  I  heard  a  crash. 

The  cab  was  stopped,  and  strange  faces 
crowded.  I  was  being  held.  "  She  has  lost  her 
mind,"  one  said. 

But  no,  it  wasn't  lost!  It  was  serving  me  with 
devilish  clearness.  More  pictures,  and  still  more. 

Well,  well — Betty  would  die  soon ! 

Like  cool  water — holy  water — came  the 
thought  of  death.  Perhaps  she  was  already  dead. 
Oh,  my  God,  make  it  true !  Let  her  be  dead ! 

Here  was  healing  at  last.     Betty  was  dead! 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

DARKNESS 

BUT  when  the  morning  came  I  could  not  be  sure 
that  Betty  was  dead. 

They  brought  me  a  telegram. 

In  wrenching  the  envelope  off  I  tore  the  mes- 
sage twice.  My  fingers  could  hardly  piece  the 
signature  together.  I  realised,  at  last,  the  Dun- 
combe  housemaid's  name.  My  mother  was  sink- 
ing, she  said;  and  we  were  expected  back  by  the 
night  train. 

The  message  had  been  sent  an  hour  after  we 
left  home.  It  reached  Lowndes  Square  seven 
hours  before  I  had  come  beating  at  the  door. 
That  it  had  lain  in  the  hall  forgotten  seemed  to  me 
hardly  to  matter  now.  Not  even  to-day  could  I 
go  home. 

I  seemed  to  see  the  future.  If  my  mother  had 
not  died  in  the  night,  the  end  would  very  quickly 
come.  There  was  mercy  there. 

As  for  me — I  knew  I  should  not  die  till  I  was 
sure  that  Betty  was  out  of  the  world.  As  though 

329 


330  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

to   our  best,   our   only   friend,   I   turned  to  the 
thought  of  her  physical  weakness. 

But  I  must  be  sure.  I  rose  up  out  of  my  bed 
.  .  .  and  Darkness  took  me  in  her  arms. 

***** 

I  was  ill  a  long,  long  while. 

Whenever  a  time  came  that  found  me  free  of 
fever,  able  to  think  again,  what  could  I  think  ex- 
cept that,  even  if  Betty  were  dead — there  were  the 
others. 

The  unhappy  man  had  said  that  always,  always 
there  were  others. 

So  I  had  seen  "  the  need  "  wrong.  The  lamp 
of  a  young  girl's  hope,  held  up  in  her  little  world, 
to  help  her  to  find  a  mate — that  light  was  pale  be- 
side the  red  glare  of  this  fierce  demand  from  men. 

And  the  people  who  knew  least  went  on  saying 
it  wasn't  true.  And  the  people  who  knew  most 
said:  there  are  many  thousand  "lost  sisters"  in 
London. 

Who  would  help  me  to  find  mine? — or  to  sleep 
once  more,  knowing  Bettina  safely  dead ! 

Nothing  to  hope  from  the  foggy,  self-bemused 
mystic,  whose  face  alternated  with  that  of  the 
nurse  in  and  out  of  my  dreaming  and  my  waking. 


DARKNESS  331 

Long  ago  she  had  turned  away  from  service,  even 
from  knowledge.  There  was  "  no  evil,  except  as 
a  figment  of  mortal  mind."  Peace!  peace! — and 
this  battle  nightly  at  her  gate!  Just  once  her 
doors  burst  open,  and  she  was  made  aware.  The 
sound  would  soon  be  faint  in  her  ears,  and  then 
would  cease. 

Who  else? 

Not  her  friend,  the  Healer — whose  way  of 
healing  was  to  look  away  from  the  wound. 

Could  I  trust  even  Eric  to  help?  The  man 
who  had  set  his  work  before  his  love — who  had 
said:  "  If  all  the  people  in  the  house  were  dying, 
if  the  house  were  falling  about  my  ears  and  I 
thought  I  was  '  getting  it ' — I'd  let  the  house  fall 
and  the  folks  die  and  go  on  tracking  the  Secret 
home."  Even  if  that  were  not  quite  seriously 
meant,  no  more  than  all  the  other  good  men  and 
true,  would  that  one  leave  the  lesser  task  and  set 
himself  to  cure  this  cancer  at  the  heart  of  the 
world. 

Eric,  and  all  the  rest  (this  it  was  that  crushed 
hope  out  of  my  heart) — they  all  knew. 

And  they  accepted  this  thing. 

That  was  the  thought  that  again  and  again  tore 


332  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

me  out  of  my  bed,  and  brought  the  great  Dark- 
ness down. 

***** 

In  the  grey  intervals  I  was  conscious  of  Mrs, 
Harborough's  being  more  and  more  in  the  room. 
I  came  to  look  for  her. 

She  spoke  sometimes  of  my  father.  She 
imagined  I  was  like  him.  To  think  that  made  her 
very  gentle  and,  I  believe,  brought  her  a  kind  of 
light. 

I  wondered  about  the  doctor.  How  had  she 
been  brought  to  have  someone  tending  me  who 
did  not  call  himself  a  Healer,  yet  who  I  felt 
might  well  have  cured  any  malady  but  mine? 

She  had  forbidden  the  nurse  to  talk  to  me  about 
my  sister,  so  that  I  was  the  more  surprised  the 
day  Mrs.  Harborough  spoke  of  Betty  of  her  own 
accord.  "  If  you  will  try  to  get  strong,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  tell  you  what  has  been  done  to  find  her. 
And  when  you  are  really  well  I  will  do  all  that  any 
one  woman  can  to  help." 

So  we  talked  a  little — just  a  little  now  and  then, 
about  the  things  I  thought  of  endlessly.  And  not 
vaguely  either.  She  saw  how  vagueness  mad- 
dened me.  We  faced  things.  How  she  had  mis- 


DARKNESS  333 

understood  my  mother.  That  could  never  be 
made  up  now.  My  mother  never  knew  why  we 
were  not  with  her,  nor  even  that  we  were  not  there. 
Consciousness  had  never  come  back  to  her.  I 
heard  of  all  that  Eric  had  done,  and  that  his  was 
the  last  face  she  knew.  He  had  stayed  with  her 
all  that  night,  to  the  end. 

There  were  letters  for  me  from  him.  Soon, 
now,  I  should  have  my  letters. 

He  had  been  many  times  to  ask  about  me. 

About  me!  What  was  he  doing  about  .  .  . 
But  no,  that  was  for  me  alone.  Up  and  down  the 
streets  I  should  go,  looking  into  the  eyes  of  out- 
casts under  city  lamps — looking  for  the  eyes  I 
knew. 

Nor  could  I  wait  till  I  was  well.  Night  by 
night  I  went  upon  the  quest.  Catching  distant 
glimpses  of  Bettina  in  my  dreams,  struggling  to 
reach  her,  for  ever  losing  her  in  the  turmoil  of 
streets  and  the  roar  of  stations,  till  the  thought  of 
Bettina  was  merged  in  overmastering  terror  of 
the  noise  and  evil  which  was  London. 

The  moment  I  was  a  little  better  they  tried  to 
get  me  to  sleep  without  an  opiate.  The  doctor 
made  so  great  a  point  of  this,  I  did  all  in  my 


334  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

power  not  to  disappoint  him,  and  for  no  reason  in 
the  world  but  that  something  in  his  voice  reminded 
me  of  Eric — just  a  little.  Nobody  knew  how 
much  of  the  time,  behind  closed  eyes,  my  mind 
was  broad  awake.  .  .  . 

Oh,  the  London  nights! — airless,  endless. 
And  the  anguish  of  those  haunted  hours  before 
dawn.  My  country  ears,  so  used  to  silence  or  the 
note  of  birds,  strained  to  interpret  London  sounds 
before  break  of  day. 

Hardly  any  honest,  individual  voices,  and  yet 
no  moment  quiet.  Incessantly  the  distant  rum- 
bling of  ...  something.  I  could  never  tell 
what.  It  was  the  roar  of  London  streets  by  day, 
attenuated,  held  at  bay,  but  never  conquered — the 
bustle  and  clang  muffled  in  the  huge  blanket  of 
the  night. 

The  strongest  impression  about  it  was  just  of 
the  vague,  unverifiable  thing  being  there — an 
enemy  breathing  in  the  dark.  Sometimes  it 
started  up  with  a  rattle  of  chains. 

"  Mail-carts,"  said  the  nurse. 

And  that  other  sound — like  one's  idea  of  bat- 
tering-rams thundering  at  fortress  walls — the 
nurse  would  have  me  believe  that  to  such  an  ac- 


DARKNESS  335 

companiment  did  milk  make  entry  into  London! 
Sometimes  the  thick  air  was  so  sharply  torn  by 
horn,  or  pierced  by  whistle,  that  I  would  start  up 
in  my  bed  trembling,  listening,  till  the  dying 
clamour  sunk  once  more  to  the  level  of  the  giant's 
breathing. 

When  I  was  not  delirious,  the  reason  I  lay  still 
was  sometimes  half  a  nightmare  reason;  a  feeling 
that  the  muffled  night-sounds  were  like  the  bees 
at  home  in  the  rhododendron,  drumming  softly  so 
long  as  we  sat  still.  The  moment  we  rose  up 
the  bees  rose  too,  with  angry  commotion,  ready 
to  fly  in  our  faces  and  sting.  Just  so  with  that 
muted  hum  of  London.  If  I  were  not  very  still, 
if  I  were  to  rise  and  venture  out,  all  the  stinging, 
angry  noises  would  rise,  too,  and  overwhelm  me. 

And  out  there  in  the  heart  of  the  swarm,  Bet- 
tina.  Being  stung  and  stung,  till  feeling  died. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

A   STRANGE   STEP 

ONE  day,  when  my  head  was  clearer,  I  seemed  to 
have  lain  a  great  while  waiting  for  someone  to 
come.  I  asked  where  Mrs.  Harborough  was. 

She  was  "  engaged  for  the  moment." 

Presently  I  asked  what  kept  her.  The  nurse 
rang  and  sent  a  message. 

Mrs.  Harborough  came  up  at  once.  She  had 
been  talking  to  Mr.  Annan,  she  said.  And  would 
I  like  to  see  him  ? 

No.  I  shrank  under  the  bedclothes,  and  turned 
my  face  to  the  wall. 

An  afternoon,  soon  after  that,  brought  me  the 
sudden  clear  sense  of  Eric's  being  again  in  the 
house.  I  was  sure  that  he  timed  his  visits  so  that 
he  might  see  the  doctor.  When  the  doctor  left 
the  room  that  afternoon  I  asked  if  Mr.  Annan  had 
been  again. 

Yes;  and  did  I  want  to  see  him  now? 

No. 

"  He  has  come  to-day  with  another  friend  of 
yours,"  said  Mrs.  Harborough,  lingering. 

336 


A   STRANGE    STEP  337 

"  One  of  the  Helmstones?  "  I  asked  dully. 

"No;  Mr.  Dallas." 

Ranny!  Ranny  was  downstairs.  The  happy, 
care-free  people  were  going  still  about  the  world. 

"  Is  he  married?  "  I  asked. 

"  Married?  "  Mrs.  Harborough  seemed  sur- 
prised. Certainly,  he  seemed  free  to  devote  a 
great  deal  of  time  to  us.  Mr.  Annan  and  he 
between  them  had  left  no  means  untried,  she 
said. 

"  I  have  been  told  a  thousand  times,"  I  inter- 
rupted, "  that  everything  has  been  done,  but  no 
one  ever  tells  me  what."  I  fell  to  crying. 

Looking  more  stirred  than  I  had  ever  thought 
to  see  her,  she  told  me  that  young  Dallas  had 
offered  rewards,  and  had  gone  from  place  to 
place  in  search.  .  .  . 

I  seized  her  hands.  I  made  her  sit  by  the  bed- 
side. 

Yes,  and  always  he  had  come  back  here,  mak- 
ing his  report  and  asking  questions. 

Eric  brought  the  doctors  and  the  nurses  .  .  . 
but  Ranny  had  done  better.  Ranny  had  stirred 
up  Scotland  Yard.  When  Eric  told  him  the  nurse 
had  said  I  was  for  ever  raving  about  barred  win- 


338  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

dows,  Ranny  had  flung  out  of  my  aunt's  drawing- 
room  and  was  gone  a  day  and  a  night. 

Yes,  he  came  back.  He  had  found  the  house. 
He  got  a  warrant,  and  he  went  with  the  police 
when  they  made  their  search.  He  had  seen  the 
woman.  She  brazened  it  out.  She  had  never 
heard  of  either  Bettina  or  me. 

My  story?  Oh,  very  possible,  she  said,  that  I 
and  my  sister  had  been  "  seeing  life."  No  un- 
common thing  for  young  women  to  lie  about  their 
escapades.  "  Drugged?  "  the  usual  excuse. 

The  next  day  I  asked  them  to  let  me  see  Ranny. 
They  refused. 

I  did  not  sleep  that  night. 

The  doctor  came  earlier  the  next  morning  and 
was  troubled.  "  What  is  it?  "  he  said. 

I  told  him.  "  I  will  promise  to  be  very  quiet," 
I  said.  I  would  promise  anything  if  they  would 
only  let  me  see  Ranny. 

Mrs.  Harborough  went  out  and  sent  a  message. 
Mr.  Dallas  was  staying  quite  near,  she  said.  But 
I  waited  for  him  for  a  thousand  years.  And 
then  ...  a  footstep  on  the  stair. 

My  heart  drew  quivering  back  from  the  two- 
edged  knife  of  Wanting-to-know  and  Dreading- 


M  STRANGE   STEP  339 

to-know.  Then  all  that  poignancy  of  feeling  fell 
to  dulness,  for  the  step  was  not  Ranny's  and  not 
Eric's.  I  had  never  heard  this  slow,  uncertain 
footfall. 

The  door  opened,  and  it  was  Ranny. 

He  did  not  look  at  me. 

His  eyes  went  circling  low,  like  swallows  before 
rain.  They  settled  on  the  coverlid  till,  slowly,  he 
had  come  and  stood  beside  me. 

Then  Ranny  lifted  his  eyes  .  .  . 

Oh,  poor  eyes!  Poor  soul  looking  out  of 
them! 

"  Ranny,"  I  whispered,  "  speak  to  me." 

"  I  have  failed,"  he  said.  He  leaned  heavily 
against  the  chair. 

"  I  have  heard,"  I  managed  to  say,  "  how  hard 
you  have  been  trying.  .  .  ." 

''But  I  have  failed!"  he  said  once  more; 
and  I  hope  I  may  never  again  hear  such  an  ac- 
cent. 

I  pointed  to  the  chair  ...  we  could  neither  of 
us  speak  for  a  while.  And  then  he  cleared  his 
throat. 

u  They  took  her  out  of  that  house  and  hid  her," 
he  said.  "  And  then  they  took  her  abroad.  I 


340  MY  LITTLE    SISTER 

traced  her  to  their  house  in  Paris.     But  she  had 
gone.     Always  I  have  been  too  late." 

When  I  could  speak  I  said:  '  You  are  a  good 
friend,  Ranny.  .  .  ." 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "  Nothing  is 
any  good!  "  He  stood  up.  "  But  I  wanted  you 
to  know  that  I  am  trying.  .  .  .  Trying  still. 
Nothing  that  you  could  do  but  I  am  doing  it. 
Will  you  believe  that?  " 

"  But,  Ranny,"  I  said,  "  how  can  you  do  all 
this?  Haven't  you  .  .  .  other  claims?  " 

"Other  claims?"  he  said,  as  though  he  had 
never  heard  of  them. 

'  You  surely  did  have  other  claims?  " 

"  I  thought  I  had.  But  when  this  came  I  saw 
they  were  nothing."  He  stopped  an  instant  near 
the  door.  *  You  don't  believe  I  would  lie  to 
you?" 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"  Then  get  well.  You  have  something  to  live 
for.  You  and  Annan.  Not  like  me." 

He  went  out  with  that  strange-sounding  step. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE   END  WHICH  WAS  THE  BEGINNING 

THEY  were  sorry  they  had  let  him  come.  A  new 
night  nurse  was  sent.  Two  doctors,  now.  And, 
either  I  dreamed  it  or,  at  the  worse  times,  Eric 
was  there  as  well.  But  always  when  I  was  my- 
self, and  the  haunted  night  had  given  way  to  day, 
his  face  was  gone.  Yet  his  care  was  all  about 
me.  The  doctors  were  friends  of  his;  the  nurses 
of  his  choosing. 

I  cannot  explain  why,  but  ferreting  out  these 
facts  gave  me  something  less  than  the  comfort 
they  might  be  thought  to  bring.  Why  was  he 
troubling  about  me?  Why  was  he  not  spending 
every  thought  and  every  hour  in  trying  to  find 
Bettina? 

Ranny  had  meant  it  well,  telling  me  I  had 
something  to  live  for  besides  Betty,  and  giving 
that  something  a  name.  But  it  was  an  ill  turn; 
a  sword  in  my  side  for  many  a  day  and  night. 
It  gave  me  a  ceaseless  smart  of  anger  against 
Eric.  I  was  jealous,  too,  that  it  had  been  Ranny, 
and  not  Eric,  who  had  been  taking  all  these  jour- 

341 


342  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

neys.  Ranny  had  been  working  day  and  night. 
Ranny  was  the  person  we  owed  most  to — Betty 
and  I. 

And  was  I  to  lie  there,  suffocated  by  all  this 
care,  and  leave  a  boy  like  Ranny  (a  boy  I  had  ex- 
pected so  little  of)  to  spend  himself,  soul  and  sub- 
stance, for  my  sister? 

How  dared  Eric  think  that  he  and  I  were 
going  to  be  happy,  while  Ranny  searched  the 
capitals  of  Europe,  and  while  Bettina  ... 

One  night,  or  early  morning  rather,  stands  out 
clear. 

Vaguely  I  remembered  a  renewed  struggle,  and 
a  fresh  defeat.  Now,  strangely,  unaccountably, 
I  had  waked  out  of  deep  sleep  with  a  feeling  quite 
safe  and  sure,  at  last,  that  Betty  was  free. 

The  night-light  had  burned  out.  A  pearly 
greyness  filled  the  room. 

The  nurse  was  sitting  by  the  window,  wrapped 
in  a  shawl. 

Her  head,  leaning  against  the  window-frame, 
was  thrown  back  as  though  to  look  at  something. 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  shawl  drawn 


THE   END   AND    BEGINNING    343 

about  drooped  shoulders,  or  the  association  of  a 
lifted  face  by  the  window,  but  I  thought  of  the 
hop-picker.  And  of  the  promise  I  had  made. 
Yes,  and  kept. 

As  long  as  I  had  been  at  Duncombe  after  that 
haggard  woman  passed,  no  other  with  my  know- 
ing had  gone  hungry  away. 

Not  all  suffering,  then,  was  utterly  vain. 

What  was  the  white-capped  figure  looking  at — 
so  steadily,  so  long? 

I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow,  and  leaned  for- 
ward till  I,  too,  could  see.  A  tracery  of  branches, 
bare,  against  a  clear-coloured  sky;  and  through 
the  crossing  lines,  a  little  white  moon  looked 
through  its  sky-lattice  into  the  open  window  of  my 
room. 

I  got  up,  so  weak  I  had  to  cling  hold  of  table 
and  chair,  till  I  stood  by  the  nurse.  She  was 
asleep,  poor  soul !  But  I  hardly  noticed  her  then. 
I  was  looking  up  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  for  it 
seemed  to  me  that  a  pale  young  face — not  like  the 
Bettina  I  had  known,  and  still  Bettina's  face,  was 
leaning  down  out  of  Heaven  to  bring  me  com- 
fort. 

But  as  I  looked  I  saw  there  was  high  purpose 
as  well  as  a  world  of  pity  in  the  face — as  though 


344  MY   LITTLE    SISTER 

she  would  have  me  know  that  not  in  vain  her  in- 
nocence had  borne  the  burden  of  sin. 

And  I  was  full  of  wondering.  Till,  suddenly, 
I  realised  that  not  to  comfort  me  alone,  nor 
mainly,  was  Betty  leaning  out  of  heaven  .  .  .  she 
was  come  to  do  for  others  what  no  one  had  done 
for  her. 

Then  the  agony  of  the  sacrifice  swept  over  me 
afresh.  I  remembered  I  had  gone  back  into  that 
last  Darkness  saying,  as  I  had  said  ten  thousand 
times  before:  "  Why  had  this  come  to  Betty?  " 

And  now  again  I  asked:  "Why  had  it  to  be 
you?" 

Through  the  gentle  grey  of  morning  Betty 
seemed  to  be  leading  me  into  the  Light.  For  the 
answer  to  my  question  was  that  the  suffering  of 
evil-doers  had  never  been  fruitful  as  the  suffer- 
ing of  the  innocent  had  been. 

Was  there,  then,  some  life-principle  in  such 
pain  ? 

A  voice  said:  "You  shall  find  in  mortal  ill,  the 
seed  of  Immortal  Good." 

I  knelt  down  by  the  window  and  thanked  my 
sister. 

Others  shall  thank  her,  too. 


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